


Whumptober 2020 The Musketeers

by Aini_NuFire



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Friendship, Gen, Hurt Aramis | René d'Herblay, Hurt Athos, Hurt Porthos, Hurt d'Artagnan, Hurt/Comfort, Whumptober 2020
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-01
Updated: 2020-10-31
Packaged: 2021-03-08 04:42:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 31
Words: 39,378
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26749678
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aini_NuFire/pseuds/Aini_NuFire
Summary: 31 days of whumpy goodness. Aramis heavy but the others get whumped sometimes too.
Comments: 201
Kudos: 185
Collections: The Musketeers Whumptober, Whumptober 2020





	1. No. 1 Hanging

**Author's Note:**

> HAPPY WHUMPTOBER! Let's jump right in. (Thanks to 29pieces for beta reading! I know it was a lot to keep up with.)
> 
> Also, disclaimer: medical accuracies may or may not be observed in this collection.

No 1. Hanging — Aramis

Aramis struggled to take in a breath, his diaphragm too extended to manage much more than a shallow hiccup. His arms had gone numb a while ago, stretched tautly above his head with shackles and chains hooked around a bolt in the ceiling. His shoulders were still on fire, though, adding to the agony of trying to breathe while hanging a mere breadth's above the floor. Every so often he'd feel the toe of his boot scuff the stone, but it was never enough to alleviate the weight of his entire body hanging suspended as it was. He'd lost track of time too in this rank dungeon in some long forgotten ruins.

His captors hadn't been in to see him much. Aramis suspected he was being held as some sort of leverage. Or perhaps they were attempting to weaken him with slow torture before pursuing a more direct interrogation. Either way, he was going to end up suffocating first.

The crack of a pistol shot echoed from somewhere outside, and Aramis struggled to lift his gaze toward the door. He thought he heard the muffled clang of swords. His heart rate automatically kicked up, sending the sound of rushing blood roaring through his ears. He couldn't help twisting in the chains in a futile effort to dislodge them from their secure hook. The movement only served to steal his breath and leave him gasping to get it back.

The noises drew closer, and the door juddered as something slammed against it. Aramis could do nothing but wait with bated breath burning in his lungs.

A moment later the door was kicked open and Athos stormed inside, blade brandished in one hand and pistol in the other. He gave the cell a swift, cursory look before holstering his gun and striding over to Aramis to examine the rigging that had him strung up.

"In here!" he called over his shoulder, and in the next instant, Porthos and d'Artagnan came charging into the room.

Aramis wanted to beg them to get him down but managed to keep the shameless plea from spilling out. He knew they were working as fast as they could. Porthos ducked in to support his weight while d'Artagnan rushed over to where the other end of the chain was anchored to the wall.

"Ready?" he asked urgently.

"I got 'im," Porthos confirmed.

Athos reached up to brace him as well as Aramis felt the taut chain slacken. He then abruptly dropped like a sack of bones. Porthos and Athos caught him, but he couldn't hold back a cry of pain as their hands pressed against his abused shoulders. His arms fell limply to his sides, the weight of the shackles and gravity dragging them down. Aramis focused on keeping his feet and sucking in ragged gasps of air now that his diaphragm was free to fully breathe.

Porthos grabbed one of his arms and lifted it to remove the shackle, and Aramis choked on another cry of pain.

"You hurt?" Porthos exclaimed in alarm.

Aramis automatically shook his head because no, he hadn't been wounded, then paused and switched to nodding because he _was_ injured. Blood was coursing back into his extremities and bringing with it the feeling of stinging needles all the way down to his fingers.

"Aramis," Athos prompted after a moment when he'd apparently failed to give them a definitive answer.

He gave a small head shake, still too focused on breathing through the agony.

"Were you strung up there the entire time they had you?" Athos asked, the urgency in his voice rising.

Aramis nodded.

Porthos growled out a curse and lowered Aramis's arm back to his side, then knelt down so he could remove the shackle without having to touch him too much. The clank of the metal falling to the floor resounded loudly in the dungeon. Porthos and Athos switched sides so he could do the other.

"Can you walk?" Athos asked.

"Yes," Aramis said breathlessly. It was the one thing he could do.

Porthos and Athos stayed close, arms out to support him if he stumbled but trying not to touch his arms or shoulders, which he appreciated. D'Artagnan led the way as Aramis shuffled out of the cell and into the corridor. His captors lay strewn about and Aramis had to focus on navigating around them without tripping. He tried to quicken his pace, eager to get out of this hellhole.

The burst of sunlight when they stepped outside was a shock to his eyes, which had become accustomed to the dim cell. He staggered over to where the others' horses were, only to pull up short as he realized the folly of trying to climb up into a saddle without the use of his arms.

"Erm…" Porthos glanced between the horse and Aramis. "If we gave you a boost?"

Aramis gritted his teeth and shook his head. "I can't…" He tested his hands, attempting to flex his fingers. They wouldn't respond.

Athos reached out and squeezed his hand. Aramis hissed sharply as it set the stinging fire ants scurrying, but he couldn't even manage to pull away.

"You do feel that," Athos checked.

"Yes," he grunted.

"Alright, can you walk a little further? We'll make camp in the woods away from here."

Aramis nodded, not so much because he thought he could make the trek but because he absolutely could not get on a horse and he did not want to stay here a moment longer. It looked as though the others had taken care of all the men camped in the place, but there was no point in risking sticking around for others to show up.

The four of them set off again, d'Artagnan leading the horses while Porthos and Athos continued to stick close to Aramis as he stumbled his way over the uneven ground. Porthos finally slipped an arm around his lower back in an attempt to help, shooting Aramis a questioning look as he did so. Aramis's lower back muscles ached, though not nearly as badly as his upper ones, so he gave a clipped nod that he was fine.

"We should stop here," d'Artagnan finally declared as he led the horses to a small stream.

Athos nodded in agreement and went to unpack the saddlebags. Aramis wanted nothing more than to collapse, but he saw Athos getting out the bedroll first, and Porthos still had a firm arm around his waist, so he just waited.

Once Athos laid the bedroll out, then Porthos moved to guide Aramis over to it and helped ease him down clumsily.

"The water's cold," d'Artagnan said. "I'll soak some bandages. That should help with the swelling, right?" He looked to Aramis for confirmation.

Aramis nodded, his head slumping forward. He was so tired. Sleep wasn't exactly possible when strung up like a slab of meat.

Athos knelt before him and started undoing the clasps of his coat. Then he and Porthos pulled it off his shoulders and tugged the sleeves down his arms. They tried to be gentle but Aramis still grunted under the flares of pain even minor jostling caused.

"The shirt's gonna be harder," Porthos pointed out.

Athos's mouth pressed into a thin line as he considered their options. "Lean forward a little," he said.

Aramis bit his lip and did as told, the muscles in his back screaming at him. Hands rolled the back of his shirt up and over his head, which was painful but not nearly as bad as lifting his arms would have been. The sleeves then easily slipped down his arms.

Porthos let out another low curse. "Athos…" he said worriedly.

Athos shifted to move behind Aramis, and he wondered what they were seeing that had shifted the tension in the air so palpably.

"Aramis," Athos said in a carefully controlled tone. "Can you move your arms at all?"

D'Artagnan abandoned his task at the stream and hurried over to join them. "Oh God," he choked, unable to mask his horror like Athos could.

"What?" Aramis ground out, unable to see for himself.

"Can you move your arms?" Athos repeated firmly.

Aramis exhaled harshly in frustration and focused on his right arm, willing it to move. He managed to lift it off his lap an inch before the pain became too much and he let it drop with a grunt.

"The other," Athos commanded.

Aramis glowered at him, even as the medic in him knew this was important. He repeated the task with his left arm.

"Okay," Athos said. He reached up and lightly palpated Aramis's shoulder blade, which made him arch away. "I need to see if they're dislocated," Athos explained.

Aramis forced himself to hold still through the examination, and even though Athos was as gentle as possible, he was still panting by the time it was over.

"D'Artagnan, those bandages," Athos prompted.

"Well?" Aramis scowled breathlessly. "What's your diagnosis, Doctor Athos?"

"That we don't need to put the joints back in," Athos replied unfazed. He paused and shifted to look Aramis in the eye seriously. "We'll start with the cold cloths, try to get the swelling down enough so you can ride. Anything else we can do?"

Aramis shook his head. "There's some salves for muscle strains, but I don't have them."

"Doctor Lemay would?"

He nodded.

"Then we'll get you back to Paris as soon as possible. Can you breathe?"

Aramis took in another shuddering breath. "It's painful, but yes."

Athos nodded, satisfied with that answer.

D'Artagnan brought over a pile of wet bandages and began laying them all across Aramis's back and shoulders. They felt like ice against his skin and he sucked in a sharp breath. But after a few moments, the stinging cold settled into a blessed numbness that gradually began to seep into his screaming muscles.

"Shoulda laid him down first," Porthos huffed, and Aramis realized his eyes had drooped closed and he'd started swaying.

"This way," Athos responded. A second later, several hands took hold of him as gently as they could and eased him down on his side. Someone arranged his still limp arms more comfortably.

"Thank you," he whispered.

A hand settled on the top of his head. If there was anything else, he didn't hear it, already drifting away now that he was secure in the hands of his brothers.


	2. "Pick Who Dies"

No 2. "Pick Who Dies" — Athos, Aramis, Porthos

Athos kept his chin held high as he was manhandled across the camp to stand before the leader of this band of brigands. "Brutus," as he'd introduced himself, was a sadistic bastard who used highway robbery as an excuse to inflict violence without restraint on unsuspecting victims. And three musketeers had made for an enticing entertainment he couldn't pass up.

Aramis and Porthos were brought over as well, only they were hauled around and shoved to their knees facing Athos, their hands tied behind their backs. Porthos shot a glower at their captors through his one good eye, the other swollen shut. Aramis swayed, sinking back on his haunches, eyes half-lidded and glazed with fever. The knife cuts Brutus had carved into him three days ago had become infected.

Brutus stalked around to stand behind the two kneeling musketeers, but it was Athos he looked at. "Pick who dies."

Athos's brows knitted together. "What?"

Brutus drew a pistol from his belt—the one he'd taken from Aramis. "Pick who dies. And I'll let you and the other one go."

Athos continued to gape at him in stupefaction. Was he serious?

Brutus pointed the pistol at the back of Aramis's head, then shifted it to Porthos's. "Well?"

"Me," Athos blurted. "Kill me, let them go."

Porthos growled low in his throat, but Brutus pressed the barrel to his head, keeping him from trying to get up.

"That's not the deal," Brutus said. "Pick one of them."

Athos shook his head. No…

"If you don't choose…" Brutus drew a second pistol, and now he had one pointed at each of their heads. "I'll shoot them both. You have until the count of five."

No…

"One."

He couldn't choose between two halves of his soul. To lose one would be to rend it asunder.

"Two."

But to lose both would be even more devastating. It would destroy him.

So would ordering one of them to die, and the one he chose to live would never forgive him.

"Three."

Athos struggled against the men holding him, but his beaten and bruised body was too weak to throw them off, and Brutus would shoot both Aramis and Porthos before Athos could reach him. So he had to choose.

But how?

Athos tried to think about it rationally. They were both seriously wounded. Who had a greater chance of survival? Aramis was already battling infection. What if Athos chose Porthos and then Aramis later succumbed to the infection? Then Athos would still end up losing them both.

"Four."

Porthos would hate him for it, though, if he condemned Aramis like this. And Aramis had survived insurmountable odds before. But if Porthos died, it would shatter Aramis. Either way, Athos would lose both of his brothers. He couldn't do it, couldn't choose between them as their friend.

But as their lieutenant, he could make a decision for the good of the regiment…and sacrifice his soul in the process.

"Five."

"Him!" Athos yelled, voice and heart breaking into a million shards. He nodded to Aramis. "Him."

"No!" Porthos screamed.

Aramis seemed too far gone to even register what was happening, which was some small solace to Athos as Brutus grinned and turned his gaze to the marksman.

A chorus of battle cries suddenly went up, and Athos jerked his head to the side in surprise to see the Musketeers, led by Treville, charging the camp. The crack of a pistol shattered the air, and Athos whipped his gaze back around in horror, expecting to see Aramis fall, his brains splattered everywhere.

But it was Brutus who fell backward with a cry. Porthos rolled onto his side and spun around to deliver a vicious kick to the man's head to make sure he stayed down.

Athos's guards released him as they went for their weapons to return fire. Athos dropped to the ground next to Porthos and quickly untied his hands, then snatched up one of the pistols to shoot at the closest brigand. Porthos did the same with the second. Then they closed in around Aramis who was in no shape to defend himself in a fight.

But as this was a rescue, there wasn't much for the three of them to do except watch their fellow musketeers and captain take out the band of criminals. It was a swift battle.

Treville sheathed his sword and hurried over, brow furrowing as he took in the sight of them.

"You've no idea how good yer timing is," Porthos said, voice weak with relief.

Athos tried to meet his eye, but Porthos wouldn't look his way. "Aramis needs immediate attention," he said to Treville.

The captain nodded and called for one of the musketeers who was also trained as a medic like Aramis. They managed to coax Aramis to his feet and helped him stumble over to another part of the camp that was free of blood and bodies where Christophe laid out a bedroll for him to lie down on.

Athos moved back to let him work and turned to Treville to give a report. He could feel Porthos listening intently, even though he never took his eyes off Aramis as Christophe drained and cleaned the infected cuts. When Athos got to the end and Brutus's ultimatum, he almost faltered. But one thing he had always been skilled at was stoically carrying out his duty, so he told Treville everything.

Except that at the very last second, he'd chosen Aramis to die. When he formed the words on his tongue, they turned to ash and nearly choked him. He couldn't say it again, couldn't condemn Aramis to die with his words like he'd done in that moment.

Treville was watching him carefully. Maybe he suspected; maybe he'd seen Brutus was about to shoot Aramis when the Musketeers charged in.

If so, he didn't comment on it. He simply put a hand on Athos's shoulder and gave a small, sympathetic squeeze. With that, he turned and went to handle the cleanup of the rest of the area.

Athos looked back at his friends, his brothers—if he even had the right to call them that anymore. Aramis was moaning and tossing his head back and forth as Christophe continued to treat his many wounds.

Porthos glanced up at him, then back at the marksman, then got to his feet. Athos braced himself for the veritable storm that marched right up to him and seized his arm to drag him several feet away.

"How could you?" Porthos seethed.

Athos had no justification, so he didn't respond.

"Does Aramis mean so little to you?" Porthos went on, giving Athos such a sharp shake that it jarred his own injuries. He made sure not to make a sound though.

"He was already dying," Athos found himself saying numbly, which of course made him sound callous and uncaring.

Porthos snarled and shoved him away. With a look of pure hatred, he spun and stormed back to Aramis.

Athos lingered there, wrung out and bereft. Porthos had every right to hate him.

He slowly turned and shuffled off to find somewhere else to sit in solitude and nurse his own wounds. With Aramis's condition, they likely wouldn't be leaving this place before tomorrow.

Athos went through the brigands's things until he found a bottle of wine, and then plopped down at the edge of camp, away from everyone. The musketeers all gave him a wide berth. Perhaps they'd figured out what had happened and hated him too.

He uncorked the bottle and knocked back a long drag.

After a while, Christophe came over and asked if he had any injuries that needed to be treated. Athos waved him off. There was nothing serious, and he deserved the discomfort.

The sun waned and dusk descended. A few campfires were started, but Athos didn't seek out their warmth. The wine was all he needed.

He didn't know how late it was when a pair of familiar, large boots came to stand in front of him. He didn't lift his head, didn't want to see the betrayal and accusation again.

"Aramis wants to see you," Porthos's gruff voice finally spoke.

"How is he?"

There was a beat of silence.

"Exhausted from Christophe's ministrations, but better. Now are you comin'? You owe him that much."

Athos winced. He didn't particularly want to be on the receiving end of Aramis's recriminations and hurt betrayal, but he did owe his friend that. So Athos lugged himself to his feet and followed Porthos back to where Aramis lay, wrapped snugly in blankets. He did look exhausted but his eyes were clearer. Athos grimly crouched down next to him.

Aramis moved his arm out from under the blankets and reached out to pat Athos's hand. "I understand," he said.

Athos shook his head. "I don't deserve your forgiveness."

"There's nothing to forgive. You were put in an impossible position." Aramis's eyes fell closed languidly. "I don't know what I would have done if it'd been me."

"I would never blame you for choosing Porthos," Athos immediately said.

Aramis's lips quirked even though his eyes stayed closed. "I don't know what I would have done," he repeated more quietly. "And despite Porthos's claims to the contrary, I don't believe he knows what he would have done in that moment either." He forced his eyes open again and mustered a firm look. "It's not your fault, Athos. It was Brutus. It was an impossible position." Aramis then shifted his gaze to Porthos and fixed him with a stern glare.

Porthos huffed grouchily in response and turned to Athos. "I forgive you."

Athos suspected Aramis had made him say it, but it was still nice to hear.

Porthos finally deflated and sighed. "You tried to give yourself fer us first."

"As I recall, you didn't like that decision either," Athos replied, testing the waters.

Porthos snorted, but a small smile ticked his mouth slightly upward. "Aramis is right: it was an impossible position."

Position, not decision, because a decision had been made. And they would all have to live with it.

But that was the salient victory they needed to remember in all this—they all lived.


	3. Forced to Their Knees

No 3. Forced to Their Knees — Athos

"Kneel before your betters."

Athos gazed back at the Comte de Coucy with bland defiance. The two of them had been children together, and as Athos remembered it, Coucy had been a sniveling, snot-nosed little brat, which adulthood had evidently not improved upon. Athos had no intention of paying him homage.

Coucy's cheeks puffed red with rage. "I said kneel! You gave up your title; therefore you are nothing more than a common peasant!"

Athos's jaw tightened. This was the second time that decision had brought about the unforeseen irritant of cowardly nobles needing to make themselves feel powerful by subjugating someone that intimidated them. And Athos knew Coucy was intimidated by him, had been even when they were boys.

"Athos, you comin'?" Porthos called, coming around the corner of the house. He immediately picked up on the tension in the air and straightened. "Everythin' alright?"

"Yes," Athos replied, not taking his eyes off Coucy. "We were just leaving."

"You will not leave until I give you leave to do so!" Coucy shouted, his voice rising to a shrill pitch.

"What's going on?" Aramis asked as he and d'Artagnan came around to join Porthos.

Coucy gestured sharply at his hovering men, who converged on the three of them with drawn swords and pistols. The musketeers tried to go for their weapons but found sword points poised against their throats before they could.

"Is your pride worth the lives of your friends?" Coucy taunted.

Athos narrowed his gaze, ire rising up within him.

"We are King's Musketeers," d'Artagnan yelled at him.

"Common foot soldiers!" Coucy rejoined. He took a menacing step toward Athos. "I think the King will be disappointed to hear how disrespectful his own men are to the nobility."

"There isn't an ounce of nobleness in your blood," Athos said.

Coucy's cheeks turned puce and he beckoned more of his men forward. Athos tried to dig his heels in as his arms were seized and hands clamped firmly on his shoulders, trying to force him down. He resisted, until one of them kicked out the backs of his legs and he slammed to his knees in the dirt.

Coucy leaned over him. "You always thought you were better than me," he seethed. "But now look at you." He held out his hand and one of his men passed him a switch. "Now I get to teach you some manners."

Coucy flicked the switch across Athos's cheek, splitting the skin so hot blood streamed down into his beard.

"Athos!" d'Artagnan yelled.

Athos held back a cry of pain and lifted his steely gaze to meet Coucy's directly. His continued defiance only seemed to make the Comte madder. Coucy swung at him again, striking his arm and catching the knuckles of one of the men restraining him. As a result, the goons all leaped away and out of range, releasing Athos. Coucy swung again, and Athos threw an arm up, catching the Comte's wrist and twisting it sharply as he surged to his feet.

Coucy yelped, and Athos ducked under his arm, cranking it around with him until he had the pathetic man in a one-arm hold. The Comte's thugs realized their mistake and tried to charge Athos, but he effectively had their boss as a human shield.

"Tell your men to stand down or I will snap your arm in two," Athos hissed in Coucy's ear.

The whimpering man gave a jerky nod to his goons, who exchanged hesitant looks before backing off. Those who had swords pointed at the others also moved away.

"Gentlemen," Athos said calmly to his friends, "if you would be so kind as to retrieve our horses."

D'Artagnan and Aramis cast wary looks at the men before turning to head back around the house to where their steeds had been left. Porthos stayed, shooting murderous glares at anyone who dared to make a sudden move.

"You'll pay for this," Coucy snarled.

"You might want ta rethink that," Porthos put in. "Unless you want the tale of how an unarmed man bested you with your own measly switch. The ladies at Court love to laugh at a buffoon."

Coucy was practically vibrating with vitriol.

D'Artagnan and Aramis returned with the horses and swiftly mounted up. Neither had drawn a weapon yet, though they were clearly tensed to do so if provoked.

Keeping Coucy in a restraining hold, Athos slowly sidestepped to make his way over. "There is no incarnation in any world where you would ever be my better," he spat in the man's ear, then shoved him to the ground. Athos flung the switch down beside him and then swung up onto his horse, and the four musketeers turned to ride away.

Good thing they'd already gotten the Comte's response to the King's contracts before this little incident, which Athos wasn't looking forward to explaining when they returned to Paris.

"Think he'll send his men after us?" Aramis asked.

"He would be a fool to do so," Athos replied. But then, Coucy wasn't exactly wise.

"I should tend to that cut," Aramis said after a moment.

"It's fine," Athos said curtly, although in truth it was stinging fiercely which wasn't being helped by the wind in his face as they galloped across the field toward the road.

"You might need stitches or it could scar," Aramis went on.

"Have I ever given you any indication I was so vain?" Besides, sewing up his cheek did not sound appealing at all.

Aramis kicked his horse into falling in beside him. "Athos."

He huffed in exasperation, for that one word said in _that_ tone conveyed everything Athos was trying to ignore and pretend away.

"Fine," he bit out and slowed his horse to a canter, then a walk. He glanced over his shoulder to make sure they weren't, in fact, being pursued.

"D'Artagnan an' I can lay down a false trail, double back," Porthos volunteered.

Aramis nodded as he swung down from his saddle. "Give us some notice if we do have to leave in a hurry."

Porthos and d'Artagnan rode off, leaving Athos alone with Aramis to witness his chagrin as he submitted to the medic's ministrations.

"Is it your pride that's wounded?" Aramis asked after cleaning the cut with some spirits.

Athos ground his teeth. "What do you think?" he snapped. Of course Aramis just had to poke at wounds, regardless of origin.

Aramis ignored his biting tone and began threading a needle. "It shouldn't be. As you said, there isn't any world where you would not be better than him."

"Others will not see it that way."

"Since when do you care what others think?"

"I don't."

"Except when they try to publicly humiliate you."

"Are you going to finish threading that needle or not?"

Aramis smirked and tied off the thread at one end. "There is nothing anyone could do to make the three of us think less of you," he said seriously. "You could have killed him and we would have helped you dispose of the body."

Athos shot him a wry look. "Careful, you're getting close to treason."

"As if we aren't well acquainted with that already," Aramis quipped. "Now hold still and don't talk. You'll ruin my needlework."

Athos rolled his eyes as Aramis leaned in to begin the first suture. It took every ounce of willpower not to flinch away from the sting and tug of flesh on his face, but Athos trusted Aramis with this.

He trusted his brothers with many things.

Including his pride.


	4. Buried Alive

No 4. Buried Alive — Porthos

Porthos came to groggily, the back of his head throbbing with an insistent demand for attention. He grunted and reached up to feel for the knot he must have, but he'd barely lifted his arm a few inches before his knuckles bumped against a hard, grainy surface. Porthos frowned and squinted into the darkness. What the…

He raised both hands this time, but again they knocked against wood mere inches above him. Heart rate ratcheting up, Porthos flattened his palms against the wood and ran them up and down and to the sides. There was more paneling on either side of him, hemming him in.

Porthos bucked and thrashed in a desperate bid to break through, but the panels wouldn't budge and he bumped his head against the ceiling.

_No, no, no_ …

"Hey!" he bellowed, slamming his fists against the wood. "Let me out!"

He wasn't…he couldn't be…

Panic surged through him and he started clawing at the wood, splinters breaking off under his nails. He barely registered the pain. His chest heaved with rapid gasps, and after several moments, his vision started to go spotty. Oh God, he was running out of air.

He scratched harder at the—he wouldn't say it—until he finally broke through.

A shower of dirt rained down on his neck and face. Porthos twisted his head away, coughing and choking on grit.

This couldn't be happening. He wasn't dead, wasn't meant to be buried. Where were his friends? Why hadn't anyone stopped this?

The dirt poured in until it was piled high on his chest and stopped up the gap. Porthos lay there, shuddering, debating whether to keep trying to dig his way out. But if he was buried deep enough, then he'd just end up quickening his death by smothering himself with dirt. Already the pile on top of him was compressing his chest and already strained breathing.

But he couldn't stay here, either, buried alive. Hot tears stung at his eyes and spilled down his cheeks. No, he couldn't die like this.

He reached up and tried to push the pile of dirt off. More spilled down, and Porthos choked on a strangled sob.

The dirt shifted more, followed by swishing sounds. Porthos squeezed his eyes shut and prayed for it to be quick.

Then something hard struck the lid above him.

"Here!" a muffled voice shouted. "Porthos!"

He snapped his eyes open as the sounds above him increased with frantic scraping. The dirt shifted again and this time a shard of light pierced through the splintered wood.

"H-here," he stammered. "I'm here!"

A moment later, the top was flipped open, and Porthos's eyes watered at the influx of blazing sun, blocked partially by a backlit silhouette above him.

"Porthos!"

He could have wept at Aramis's voice as his friend reached down and gripped his arms, hauling him upright. Porthos blinked rapidly and shuddered again, desperate to climb out of the pine box. Another hand reached down from above and he automatically grasped it. Athos pulled from one end and Aramis pushed from the other, and Porthos was propelled out of the grave and onto the grass. He collapsed to his knees and doubled over, hugging himself as he sucked in gasping breaths of fresh oxygen. A hand settled on the back of his neck and squeezed.

"Porthos, look at me," Aramis urged, crouching down in front of him. "Are you hurt?"

He shook his head, not trusting himself to speak.

Aramis began running his hands over him searching for injuries anyway. Porthos let him, the physical contact soothing. He focused on getting his breathing under control and the grounding touches of his brothers.

"What happened?" he finally managed to ask.

"You don't remember?" Athos replied.

Porthos shook his head.

"We were investigating Huguenot rebels. You went to speak with a witness and never returned. We found one of the rebels and interrogated him until he admitted to what happened to you."

Porthos reached up to gingerly touch the back of his head. Right, he'd gone inside a dark building and something had struck him from behind…

He finally looked up and around at where they were, and a chill ran down his spine as he saw it was an actual cemetery. "Why?" he choked out.

Aramis's mouth was pressed into a tight line. "They thought an un-Catholic burial would be the ultimate insult."

Porthos furrowed his brow. "They should've jus' killed me."

Aramis grimaced and reached out to squeeze his shoulder. "I'm glad they didn't."

Porthos ducked his gaze in apology. No, he didn't actually wish he was dead right now, but waking up like that… He gave another involuntary shudder.

"Come on," Athos said. "Let's get out of here."

His brothers helped him to his feet, then flanked him as they began to make their way out of the cemetery. Porthos didn't think he was going to be comfortable in small spaces for a while.

Except when his protective brothers hemmed him in from both sides. That was okay.


	5. Failed Escape

No 5. Failed Escape — d'Artagnan

D'Artagnan glanced over his shoulder to make sure none of the slave traders were looking his way as he struggled with the pin in the lock of his manacles. He could just hear Porthos upbraiding him for not paying better attention during his lock picking lessons, but Porthos made it look so damn _easy_ , while d'Artagnan was chained in the dark with a host of barbarians constantly looking over his shoulder.

They'd all be moving out with their "cargo" in the morning, so d'Artagnan knew he had to escape before then. He forced his pick into the locking mechanism harder, only for it to slip from his fingers and fall to the ground. He cursed under his breath, then whipped his gaze around in fear of being heard. The guards continued to mill about, mostly sticking close to the campfire several yards away.

D'Artagnan tried not to visibly move as he felt around the dirt and leaves for the pick. Snatching it up, he tried again, this time reminding himself to be more gentle and "persuasive" as Porthos would have called it.

Dawn began seeping into the sky, and d'Artagnan's heart rate accelerated. He was running out of time.

He felt the pick catch and the locking mechanism suddenly snicked. Adrenaline surged through him as he gently extracted his wrist from the manacle. His heart was now pounding against his rib cage as he turned to the second, praying he could get it in time. By the grace of God, it unlocked quicker, and d'Artagnan stayed crouched in the shadow of the overhang as he surveyed the camp to make sure the coast was clear. The sky had lightened just enough that he would be able to see his way through the woods, but it also meant his captors would see him. Still, he had to make a break for it.

D'Artagnan waited until the guards' backs were turned and then he leaped to his feet and bolted for the trees. There were some surprised shouts from the other prisoners—d'Artagnan gritted his teeth, regretting having to leave them. But if he could just get back to the musketeers, he could bring help and free all of them.

He sprinted through the woods, belatedly realizing he wasn't sure he was even going in the right direction. But he pressed on, escape his only objective.

His foot snagged on something and he tripped just as a huge net sprung up from the ground around him, lifting him into the air with a springy bounce and rattling of tin cans that were tied to the ends of the netting. D'Artagnan thrashed and twisted in the trap, trying to break free, which only made the alarms sound louder. He abruptly stopped, wracking his brain for another way out.

The sound of trampling underbrush heralded the arrival of the slavers, and d'Artagnan sagged in defeat.

The leader stalked around beneath him, chuckling. He then gestured at one of his men, who took a machete to the anchor line. D'Artagnan's stomach lurched into his throat as he dropped, landing with a jarring thud on the ground. He groaned as hands prized the net off of him and then seized his arms, hauling him to his feet.

"A runner, eh?" the leader said, eyeing him up and down. "There's always one."

D'Artagnan struggled on principle as he was led back to the camp. The leader walked over to where he'd spent the night and surveyed the ground, then bent down to pick up the pick. The man arched a brow at d'Artagnan, looking perhaps mildly impressed.

Then he turned in a half circle, showing the pick to the rest of the prisoners. "Escape attempts will not be tolerated," he said loudly, making his way back to facing d'Artagnan. "Do you know what we do to runners?"

D'Artagnan lifted his chin. "You need your cargo intact," he pointed out.

The man smirked. "I always make an allowance for one example." He drew his pistol and shot d'Artagnan in the leg.

He cried out in shock and pain as his knee buckled, and his guards let him fall to the ground clutching his thigh.

"Try running now," the leader said.

D'Artagnan curled around his injured leg, clenching his teeth against the agony as hot blood pumped between his fingers.

Another shot rang out and d'Artagnan flinched, half expecting the man to have shot him in the other leg. But it was the slave trader who yelled and fell backward, a bleeding hole in his thigh. D'Artagnan twisted on the ground as battle cries announced the arrival of help and the familiar faces of his friends charged from the tree line into the camp. The crack of muskets and screech of steel sounded through the air.

D'Artagnan forced himself to breathe and tried to sit up, casting about for a weapon. Unfortunately, the only one in reach was the spent pistol that had already shot him. Still, he stretched to snatch it up and swung it like a bludgeon at one of the guards standing within reach. The guy's kneecap had to have shattered from the impact and he screamed as he dropped, putting his head within range for d'Artagnan to clobber him in the skull.

That was apparently all he was going to contribute to the fight that raged around him, though the musketeers were making swift work of the slavers. Porthos, in particular, looked like a fuming storm as he cut down his opponents.

When the fighting was finally over, Aramis rushed to d'Artagnan's side and prized his hands away from his leg to get a look.

"How'd you- find me?" d'Artagnan gasped.

"There was a witness to your abduction," Athos explained, coming to stand over him. "They recognized one of the men and we identified a mistress who then told us everything, after some persuasion."

D'Artagnan dropped his head back against the ground. By the grace of God again.

"The ball went all the way through," Aramis reported. "But I need to sew this before it bleeds further."

"I'll get the horses," Athos said. He cast one last look at d'Artagnan before heading back into the woods.

Aramis placed d'Artagnan's hands back around the two holes and pressed down hard to slow the bleeding until Athos could return with their supplies.

Porthos was busy freeing the other prisoners, but once that was done, he stomped over to the leader of the gang, who was also writhing on the ground clutching an identical wound to d'Artagnan's. D'Artagnan wondered whether that had been intentional when his rescuers had swooped in.

Porthos glowered down at the man with righteous fury, then slowly and deliberately lifted his boot and planted it firmly on the gaping hole in his leg. The slaver threw his head back and ground his teeth on a strangled cry.

"Porthos," Aramis said in a warning tone. "Perhaps you could deal with this scoundrel elsewhere? I have a patient to tend to."

Porthos bared his teeth. "Sure thing." He reached down and grabbed the man's collar, hauling him up and dragging him further away.

D'Artagnan opened his mouth to ask whether they should let Porthos go off with him alone, but a fresh wave of searing pain stole his breath, and he decided he didn't care at the moment.

"Sorry we didn't get here a moment sooner," Aramis said regretfully.

D'Artagnan sucked in a sharp breath, trying to breathe through the pain. "Better now than when they dumped my body overboard a galley ship," he managed to get out. He exhaled in frustration. "I'm sorry I let myself get caught again."

"That net in the woods?" Aramis asked.

D'Artagnan nodded. "You saw?"

"Actually, we were having trouble finding the campsite when we heard the ruckus. Gave us a direction to go."

"Oh."

Maybe it was fortuitous, then. Though, d'Artagnan really could have done without getting shot.

Athos returned then and handed Aramis his medic kit. Porthos came back shortly after that. He stopped to bend down and pick up something out of the dirt, then came over and crouched beside d'Artagnan, who was attempting to breathe stoically through Aramis's sutures.

Porthos held up the lock pick and flashed d'Artagnan a proud grin as he reached out his other hand to squeeze his shoulder.

D'Artagnan nodded back. Luck, skill, God, they were all on his side. But being able to depend on his brothers…that never failed him.


	6. "Stop, please"

No 6. "Stop, please" — Aramis

"We have to bring his fever down."

"We've been _trying_ ," Porthos said, shooting Athos an irritable glare as he pressed yet another wet cloth to Aramis's forehead.

Aramis moaned and shuddered on the bedrolls they'd piled underneath him in an effort to make him more comfortable on the ground, not that he was aware of anything at this point. The fever had him gripped tightly in its throes.

Porthos clenched his fists in helpless frustration. The infected wound had been successfully drained, but the fever refused to relinquish its hold. At this rate, it would kill him first.

"There's the river," d'Artagnan spoke up.

Porthos and Athos exchanged a look. The water would be freezing. But, glancing back at their febrile friend, they both knew it was their best option…maybe even their only one.

Porthos stood and quickly removed his weapons belt and coat. He then shucked off his trousers so he was down to his shirt and braes. It was going to be frigid, but someone had to hold Aramis up so he didn't drown.

The marksman had already been dressed down to his smallclothes to treat his wound, so Porthos knelt to pull Aramis into his arms. Athos wordlessly stepped around him to help, and together they carried him down to the riverbank.

Porthos hissed sharply as he stepped into the shallows, the icy water zinging all the way up his leg. It contrasted sharply with the burning heat radiating off the man in his arms. Porthos forced himself to take another step, and another, wading in until the water lapped just below his knees. Now he was shivering violently as he carefully bent down to lower Aramis into its glacial fold.

The effect was immediate, with Aramis letting out a muffled cry and trying to twist away, but the water quickly enveloped him.

"I know, I know," Porthos murmured as he got to his knees and was half swallowed himself by the arctic waters.

He rocked back on his haunches so he could brace Aramis in his lap, keeping his head above the surface while submersing most of the rest of him. It shouldn't take long, not with how cold the temperature was. Already Porthos's hands were numb, and he fumbled to keep a firm grip on his brother.

Aramis continued to twist and moan, though he was far too weak to offer much of a fight.

"Stop," he begged.

Porthos glanced down and was surprised to see Aramis's eyes wide open, though his gaze was glazed over from the fever and delirium.

"I know it ain't nice, but we need to get yer fever down," Porthos said.

"Please…"

Porthos swallowed hard, a spiky lump trying to take up residence in his throat. Unfortunately, with his own temperature plummeting, he couldn't tell whether it'd been long enough to bring Aramis's fever down significantly or not.

Aramis lolled his head back and forth in distress. "Please stop," he choked out brokenly, and Porthos almost yanked him out right then and there. He knew how Aramis felt about the cold and he hated being the one to subject him to this torment. But if that's what it took to save his life, there wasn't anything else Porthos could do.

He looked over his shoulder and saw Athos and d'Artagnan standing on the bank. D'Artagnan looked equally distraught over this, and Athos's face held a grim compassion for them.

Aramis gave another violent shudder and closed his eyes in what looked like defeat, which alarmed Porthos more than anything else.

"I c-can't t-tell," he said through chattering teeth. He shot Athos and d'Artagnan an apologetic look for the unspoken favor.

Athos stepped into the river, heedless of getting his trouser legs soaked, and reached down to feel Aramis's forehead. Porthos waited with bated breath for his pronouncement. He couldn't feel his legs anymore.

Then Athos let out a heavy exhalation and nodded. "It's lower. Let's get him out."

But Porthos found he couldn't quite stand, at least not with Aramis's waterlogged weight in his arms.

D'Artagnan seemed to realize this though and came splashing in to help Athos lift Aramis out of the water and carry him back to shore.

Porthos tipped sideways to catch himself on his hands and knees as he struggled to straighten his legs out. He moved sluggishly up the embankment and was just stumbling out of the water when d'Artagnan ran back to help him.

"Now we've got the opposite problem with you," the young Gascon huffed.

Porthos looked to where Athos was vigorously working to dry Aramis off. "As long as he lives," he breathed.

He'd brave the freezing cold or the fires of Hell for his brother.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Continues tomorrow.


	7. I've Got You

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Follow-up to No. 6.

No 7. I've Got You — Aramis

The bitter cold was relentless, piercing down to his marrow and stripping him bare. No matter how hard he tried to escape it, he couldn't. It was going to drag him down to Hell, which wasn't made of fire, but ice.

A dull pain throbbed in the background and he made a muffled sound of despair.

"I've got you," a deep voice rumbled in his ear, soft and weary as though the words had been said a hundred times already and was rote by now, but no less sincere.

Aramis became aware of movement against his back: a broad chest rising and falling with steady breathing. Heavy weights were circled around him—arms, not chains. He shifted slightly, trying to restore feeling in the rest of his body to determine exactly where he was and in what position.

"Shh," the voice soothed. "I've got you."

"P'thos," he rasped, fighting the heaviness of his eyelids in order to open them.

The body behind him stiffened.

"Aramis? You awake?"

"Mm." He wasn't sure. What had happened to so utterly wreck him? He couldn't remember.

"Aramis?" another voice prompted. D'Artagnan.

Aramis blinked blearily at the hazy figure crouched on his left.

"Here," d'Artagnan said.

Aramis didn't know what "here" was supposed to mean, but a second later he felt the rim of a tin cup touch his lips, and he parted them automatically. The cool water filled his dry mouth but was difficult to swallow. D'Artagnan only let him have a few sips anyway.

Aramis forced his eyes open again and tried to focus. He was covered in a light saddle blanket and there was an odd dampness to his smallclothes. He was slightly propped up against Porthos's chest, whom he realized was shirtless and wrapped in blankets. Porthos adjusted his position, brushing one arm against Aramis's, and the shock of icy skin brought a sharp hiss from the marksman.

"You're cold," he said wispily.

"Yer own personal fever reducer," Porthos quipped.

Aramis frowned at him.

"We had to put you in the river," d'Artagnan explained. "Your fever was too high."

Oh. Did he remember that? He remembered freezing, remembered being held down in the snow… Aramis shuddered and pushed the phantom memories away.

"You're too cold," he said instead.

Porthos's expression pinched with regret. "You're still runnin' a fever."

"No." Aramis shook his head, trying to dispel the stubborn cobwebs clinging to his mind. " _You're_ too cold."

"He's not," d'Artagnan quickly assured him. "I'm sure it feels that way to you, but don't worry, we've been watching him."

We… "Where's Athos?"

"Getting more water. He'll be back in a minute. Can you drink some more?"

Aramis was vaguely aware of the importance of replacing the fluids he lost, though he was feeling sleepy again. It didn't require much effort to accept the water when d'Artagnan placed the cup against his lips again. His eyes slipped closed before he'd finished swallowing.

"He gonna be alright?" Porthos asked worriedly.

"I don't know," d'Artagnan hedged. "But he woke up. That's a good sign, right?"

Aramis blindly lifted one hand to weakly pat at Porthos's arm. He was too tired to form words, but the meaning was clear.

Porthos's arms tightened just a fraction around him. "I've got you," he repeated softly, and Aramis drifted off, secure in that.


	8. Abandoned

No 8. Abandoned — Athos

The familiar pounding in his skull woke Athos, and he suppressed a moan that he had to rise for yet another day. He lolled his head to the side, only for his cheek to meet the cold feel of damp mulch. Furrowing his brow in confusion, Athos forced his eyes open to look around. He was met with a view of muddy leaves and grass inches from his face, and beyond that tilted trees. What the…

He pushed himself up into a sitting position. The change in elevation made his vision swim and his head pulsed with renewed agony. Now that he was more awake, he realized it wasn't the dull pounding of being hungover, but a stabbing emanating from a singular point. Athos reached up to gingerly touch the back of his head. He winced as he brushed a tender knot. That explained a few things…

He carefully roved his gaze around the still and silent woods until he spotted a body several yards away at the edge of the road. Athos staggered to his feet and lumbered toward it. As he crested the small incline to the road, he spotted more bodies. None he recognized. Except one's livery, that seemed familiar. Right, the Musketeers had been escorting Chancellor Dubois to Paris when they'd been ambushed on the road. The attack had come from all sides and the musketeers had been forced to spread out…

Where were they now? Athos stumbled up the road a short ways, saw more bodies scattered throughout the woods. None wearing Musketeer blue, thankfully. And the chancellor's carriage was gone, so the others must have gotten him to safety.

Athos felt a twinge in his heart at being left behind, though it was petty of him to feel that way. Of course his friends had to prioritize the chancellor over him. Athos would have even told them to go. They'd done their duty, and now it was up to him to make his way back.

Except…Athos squinted one direction, then the next, not quite remembering which way was Paris. The tracks on the ground weren't helpful either—were the carriage wheels coming or going? Athos squeezed his eyes shut and pinched the bridge of his nose. He was usually more focused than this, but his brain was muzzy. He opened his eyes again, hoping his vision had cleared and he could orient himself. It wasn't working.

He let out a frustrated breath and turned in a slow circle, completely at a loss. He should just pick a direction and walk, then.

He took a lumbering step, only to stop and clutch at his swimming head. Damn it. Athos staggered over to a tree and slumped against it, then slid down to the ground. Maybe he'd just wait here for a while. He closed his eyes and let himself drift, which was easy with the head injury. He could almost hear Aramis yelling at him for that, but Aramis wasn't here so Athos wasn't answerable to him.

A distant voice echoed in his ears, shouting his name. He ignored it.

"Athos!"

Now it was drawing closer, and Athos prized his eyelids open. He was still alone, and the woods had fallen silent again. His mind must be playing tricks on him.

"Athos!" it came again, and it wasn't Aramis.

Athos's brows knitted together. D'Artagnan?

There was a crunch of underbrush and then the young Gascon was sprinting up onto the road, urgent gaze sweeping over the bodies. He turned his back to where Athos was sitting and shouted again. "Athos!"

"Over here," he replied, surprised at how small his voice came out. He cleared his throat and tried again. "Here!"

D'Artagnan whirled, eyes blowing wide. Then he was hurrying over and dropping down beside Athos. "You're alive," the boy breathed in relief. "Are you hurt?"

He actually hadn't had the presence of mind to check, but he figured anything serious would have made itself known by now. "Someone must have clubbed me with something," he answered. "What happened? Is the chancellor safe?"

"Aramis and Porthos are with him," d'Artagnan replied, leaning closer to examine Athos's head.

Athos batted his hand away. He did not need anyone else poking around back there. "Why aren't you with them?"

D'Artagnan briefly looked hurt at the terse accusation in Athos's tone, but then it was quickly gone from his expression. "We got him to safety. When you didn't catch up, we agreed I'd come back for you."

Athos looked away, ashamed at his curt behavior…relieved someone had come back for him. That he hadn't been abandoned.

"Can you walk?" d'Artagnan asked. "My horse isn't far."

Athos started to nod, then abruptly stopped when it made his head pound worse. Riding would not be pleasant.

D'Artagnan gave him a half sympathetic, half concerned look, and held out his hand to help him up. Athos took it, gritting his teeth as he pushed himself to his feet. D'Artagnan slipped an arm around his waist to support him.

"Thank you," Athos finally said.

D'Artagnan flashed him a small smile. "All for one."


	9. For the Greater Good

No 9. For the Greater Good — Aramis

The mood is as somber as the gray winter thickets the troop of Musketeers pass through on their way into Savoy. Snow crunches under the wheel of the empty cart trailing behind them. A cart that will be full on the return journey.

No one says a word, leaving the voices in Treville's head to sound all the louder as he goes over and over it in his mind. Twenty-two musketeers, dead. He hadn't meant for this to happen—and the knowledge of the role he'd played in setting his own men up for disaster sickens his stomach.

_Treville stormed into Richelieu's office with such force that the doors banged against the wall. The Cardinal looked up from his desk and merely arched an eyebrow._

_"Yes, Captain Treville, what is it?" he asked blandly._

_It was fortunate the Cardinal was alone, lest Treville's display cause a stir of gossip throughout the palace._

_"Cluzet has been interred in the Chatelet, but I just received word that the Musketeer troop in Savoy have been slaughtered! Every last one of them!"_

_Richelieu appeared unfazed—and unsurprised. "Victor was…thorough."_

_Treville's blood ran cold. "The King ordered me to inform the Duke of the musketeers' location…" He almost couldn't believe it. "That was your distraction?" He'd known one was needed to grab Cluzet, but he'd never imagined… Twenty-two dead musketeers…_

_Richelieu's mouth twitched as though he were trying to suppress a smug smirk. "The Duke may have been led to believe those musketeers were in Savoy to assassinate him. As anticipated, he chose to handle the matter personally, leaving his home and chancellor unguarded."_

_Treville saw red and he seized Richelieu by the front of his robes. "You sacrificed twenty-two good men for a distraction!"_

_"It was for the greater good of France!" he snapped back. "I don't need to tell you that sometimes sacrifice is required."_

_Treville couldn't breathe, couldn't form words. Twenty-two dead…_

_Richelieu shoved him off and tugged his robes down. "They died in the service of their King and country," he said unapologetically and turned away._

_Treville shook his head. No, they didn't…_

His horse pulls up short and shifts anxiously. The forest is whitewashed and still, almost tranquil. Until a guttural caw breaks the silence and Treville's vision tilts. Through the trees are frost-covered mounds sprawled along the ground with rust-colored slush beneath them. Crows hop over the lumps and peck at them.

Porthos breaks from the line and charges into the clearing, shouting and waving his arms to chase the carrion birds away. They scatter in a rush of disgruntled squawks and black feathers.

Treville dismounts and steps forward, eyes raking over the trampled campsite, the torn tents…the bodies in stained white shirts. These men had been taken unawares, in the middle of the night. Cut down before many of them had a chance to even draw their weapons in defense. This is not dying in service. This is a massacre.

The men he brought with him stand frozen before the carnage, overcome with grief and horror. Treville gestures at them, breaking the stupor, and signals for them to get to work.

They spread out mutely and begin to call out the names of the fallen as they are lifted from the snow and carried to the back of the cart. Treville's heart cracks with each one. He was following orders. He didn't mean for this to happen…

"Captain!" someone shouts urgently.

Treville can't imagine what would be so pressing out here now, but he makes his way across the campsite to where Alain is kneeling over another body. The face is turned into the snow and a blood-stained bandage wrapped around the head obscures his features.

Alain looks up with wide eyes. "He's alive."

Treville's breath stops in his throat. Alive? He drops down on the ground, snow instantly seeping into the knee of his trousers, and reaches out to roll the wounded soldier over. His heart seizes.

_Aramis_.

He's pale, nearly blue, and Treville yanks his glove off to check for himself, because there's no way Aramis could still be alive, not after two days lying in the snow. But he is; there's a slow, faint throb beneath Treville's fingers. Aramis is alive…but might not be for much longer.

"Get a fire going!" he orders. "We need blankets!"

There's a flurry of activity now that they know one of their own still lives. Athos starts a fire in some burnt out remains of a previous one. Porthos brings over an armful of saddle blankets taken from the horses and crouches down across from Treville, his eyes swimming with tentative hope as he looks on Aramis. Treville has no words of comfort for him, only more sharp orders barked out harshly as they wrap Aramis in the blankets and move him next to the fire.

"Did you find anyone else?" Treville asks, voice hitching slightly.

Athos shakes his head. "The others are dead. But…"

"But what?"

Athos holds out a pauldron. "We didn't find Marsac."

Treville furrows his brow. If Marsac isn't here then where is he? Realization sinks like a stone in Treville's gut. Someone stopped in a village on the French side of the border and reported the massacre. Someone else sent word to the garrison in Paris.

…Someone bandaged Aramis's head.

And then left him behind.

Treville gives a clipped nod. He'll worry about Marsac later.

Porthos has pulled Aramis into his arms in an effort to share body heat. The marksman doesn't rouse at any of it. Treville shifts closer and picks at the bandage to get a look at the wound underneath, but the cloth is either glued or frozen to it, so he leaves it alone. There will be time to tend the wounds once Aramis isn't on the brink of death's door.

Alain heats some water over the fire and brings it over. With careful patience, he dribbles the liquid into Aramis's mouth bit by bit. It's not enough, not nearly enough, but Aramis starts to moan, a sign of life that fills everyone with renewed hope and fervency. Alain coaxes more water into him, though he doesn't fully regain consciousness. A dark part of Treville wonders if he ever will.

"Who did this?" Porthos growls. "Captain, tell me we're going to hunt them down for this."

A spiky lump gathers in Treville's throat. Staunch gazes all turn to him for leadership, and he nearly buckles under the shame. There are two witnesses: one who may yet not survive, the other a deserter. Twenty souls lost. Two lives irreparably shattered.

For the greater good, he keeps telling himself. For the greater good…


	10. They Look So Pretty When They Bleed

No 10. They Look So Pretty When They Bleed — Aramis

The strident screech of clashing steel competed with the raucous roar of the crowd. Aramis threw his arm up to block a strike aimed at his head and twisted underneath his foe's blade to retaliate from the side. His sword sliced through cloth, flesh, and sinew, splattering blood through the air. His opponent staggered away and the spectators erupted in a mixture of awe and outrage; they didn't want the musketeer to win. Again.

The wounded man let out a raging bellow and charged. Aramis ducked under the swing and ran him through. His body fell to the ground to lay among the other defeated contenders. Still they kept coming, determined to beat down the lone musketeer they'd found snooping around their camp. These mercenaries had a vicious taste for violence and were only too happy to throw Aramis into a ring and give him a fighting chance against them.

If a fighting chance meant being bombarded one after another with men determined to kill him. His clothes were damp with a mixture of sweat and blood. His arm quavered as he struggled to lift his sword to meet the next man who rushed him. The clang of steel echoed harshly in his ears as this foe attacked with abandon, swinging over and over in rapid succession so that Aramis was forced to deliver only defensive parries as he scrambled backward. He tripped over a previously defeated opponent and went sprawling on his back. The blade arced down.

Aramis rolled and swiped at the man's legs, sending yet more blood spraying through the air. He scrambled to his feet and swung again. When this man went down, Aramis almost lost his balance and pitched over on top of him. A host of injuries screamed for his attention, but the fight wasn't over, not by a long shot.

The mercenaries were growing impatient, it seemed, and two decided to take him on at the same time. Aramis tried to flick his hair out of his face and gripped his sword with both hands. His strength was failing.

The two men bore down on him simultaneously. Aramis managed to stop both their blades with his, but it left him trapped and vulnerable. One kept his blade locked with Aramis's while the other slid his free and arched his arm back to cut down the musketeer from his exposed side.

A pistol shot cracked the air and the man jerked backwards. Aramis wasted no time wrenching his blade free and swinging it up and around at the other man, who was briefly distracted. More shots rent the air but Aramis ignored them, focusing simply on staying alive as his opponent recovered and fought back. Aramis staggered backward under the onslaught, his boots slipping in the blood slicked mud. Mustering one last burst of strength, he pushed back and shoved the mercenary away. His feet knocked against the body of his comrade and he fell. Aramis followed him down with a thrust of his sword.

He stumbled as he spun around, searching for the next attacker. But there was none. The mercenaries were scattering as the Musketeer regiment rode into their camp and cut them down.

Aramis swayed where he stood, too exhausted to truly process the timely rescue. His sword slipped from numb fingers to fall in the mud.

"Aramis!"

He turned toward the sound of Porthos's voice, his vision wavering slightly.

Porthos, Athos, and d'Artagnan were converging on his position as the rest of the musketeers took care of the mercenary soldiers.

Athos's eyes were unusually wide as he took in Aramis and the scene. "How much of that blood is yours?" he asked urgently.

Aramis furrowed his brow and glanced down at his gore-spattered coat. Even his hands were streaked with crimson. There were places on his body that stung with fire but they seemed distant. He raised one hand to cross himself and utter a prayer for forgiveness for the lives he'd taken this day, but Athos snatched his wrist out of the air.

" _Aramis_. Where are you hurt?"

"He's in shock," d'Artagnan said.

"We need a medic over here!" Porthos yelled over his shoulder.

Aramis blinked, everything suddenly narrowing to a pinprick. He felt his legs buckle and several hands struggling to catch him. Then nothing.

He next came aware to the sensation of a cool, wet cloth being gently run down one arm. A second joined the first, wiping at his face, his neck. He let out a soft moan and struggled to open his eyes.

"Aramis?" Porthos called worriedly.

Everything was blurry but Aramis could make out a large, dark shape that vaguely resembled his friend. "Mm," he tried to respond.

"Easy," another voice soothed. Athos. "You may not want to move right away. There's a fair amount of bandages holding you together."

That didn't sound good. But not moving did. Aramis let his eyes fall closed again.

The wet cloth resumed its bathing of his face. Aramis just lay there for several long moments before he tried opening his eyes again. His vision was clearer this time and he saw Athos dunking a red-tinged cloth in a bowl of water and then wringing it out.

"I brought fresh ones," d'Artagnan's voice spoke from somewhere.

Aramis watched the red trickle away, watched Athos pick up a clean white cloth and wet it next.

Athos paused when he noticed Aramis awake and staring. They shared an unspoken exchange of relief, gratitude, and love.

Aramis closed his eyes as his brothers continued to wash away his sins.


	11. Defiance

No 11. Defiance — d'Artagnan

D'Artagnan grunted as he was shoved into the chair positioned in the middle of the barn. His arms, already bound behind his back, were threaded through the slats and tied to the backs of the chair's legs. The goons retreated, making way for their leader to approach. D'Artagnan lifted his chin.

"He did not have the letters?" the Spaniard's thickly accented voice asked his men.

"No, señor."

The Spaniard turned his gaze to d'Artagnan. "Where are they?"

D'Artagnan attempted to shrug, though it didn't execute well with his arms anchored nearly to the ground.

The Spaniard smirked. "You think you are brave. Most men do. Until they are faced with torture."

D'Artagnan forced himself to remain still and not show any fear. He thought of Athos, tried to mimic the bored expression he knew his mentor would show were he in this situation.

The Spaniard cocked his head, appraising him for a long moment. "You are not even a musketeer." He gestured to d'Artagnan's bare shoulder where he hoped to one day bear a pauldron like his friends. "Are you willing to die, slowly and painfully, for something that is not even your duty to protect?"

"I may not wear the uniform but I have the heart of a musketeer," d'Artagnan replied, meeting the Spaniard's gaze with staunch defiance.

The man snorted. "We shall see."

He moved around behind d'Artagnan, and a moment later came the clinking of instruments. D'Artagnan tried to crane his neck far enough to see over his shoulder, but the Spaniard's back was to him, blocking his view of whatever he was doing.

His pulse began to palpitate with apprehension, his imagination working wildly to fill in the blanks of the sounds he couldn't identify. He knew he couldn't give up the information.

He also hoped he wouldn't give them the satisfaction of a scream.

The Spaniard continued to hum and tut, drawing out the anticipation far longer than was necessary. D'Artagnan focused on keeping his breathing steady. He could endure this. He wanted to be a musketeer. And he would not betray his friends.

The Spaniard finally came back around, and d'Artagnan's heart jumped into his throat as he saw the iron rod in the man's hand, the tip glowing hot from sitting in a fire.

"Still feeling brave?" the man asked.

D'Artagnan swallowed hard and didn't respond.

The Spaniard's lips pulled back as he leaned forward, bringing the hot iron tip up to d'Artagnan's face. D'Artagnan jerked his head back reflexively, but there was nowhere to go as the iron descended toward his cheek. The sweltering heat radiating from it first warmed his skin, then began to burn. And it wasn't even touching yet.

"Last chance, boy. Tell me where the letters are."

D'Artagnan was trembling, but he managed to raise his eyes and meet the steely gaze of his captor. "Go to hell."

The Spaniard's nostrils flared, and he moved the rod down to jam the tip into d'Artagnan's chest between the folds of his shirt. The instantaneous burning and sizzling was more than he could have prepared for, and he threw his head back and screamed as the acrid odor of his own burning flesh wafted up to his nose.

The Spaniard yanked the rod away and stepped back, giving d'Artagnan a moment to catch his breath.

He choked back a sob and panted through his mouth, fighting the waves of agony and the bile threatening to rise up in the back of his throat.

"I will ask you again," the Spaniard said impatiently. "Where are the letters?"

D'Artagnan shook his head, unable to form words. The Spaniard moved in and pressed the burning rod to d'Artagnan's collar bone. He screamed again, a long, primal howl ripped from his throat without conscious consent.

The Spaniard held the rod there a little longer this time before pulling back. D'Artagnan's scream petered out to whimpers.

"You see," the Spaniard said. "You are not brave."

A broken sob escaped past his lips, but d'Artagnan immediately clenched his jaw against any further ones. His body may betray him, but he would _not_ give in.

"You- don't know- the meaning- of it," he gritted out.

The rod was shoved underneath his collar and everything whited out under another assault of all-consuming agony.

He barely heard the gunfire past his own screams, or the ensuing scuffle. He only knew when the rod was removed and he was given a chance to catch his breath again and choke down those shameful cries.

"Those bastards," someone growled.

Hands started prying at the ropes around his wrists and he flinched.

"Easy, d'Artagnan, it's us," Aramis's soothing voice spoke from nearby.

D'Artagnan struggled to lift his head and peered out through vision blurred by tears.

"How badly is he injured?" Athos's concerned voice came next.

"Give him a moment," Aramis replied, then added, "I count three burns."

D'Artagnan shuddered as he sucked in a ragged breath. The ropes loosened and fell away from his arms, and he yanked them forward, then attempted to fold over himself in an effort to protect his searing chest. But Aramis caught his shoulders and prevented him from doing so.

"Easy, we'll get you set to right as soon as we get out of here. Are you with us?"

D'Artagnan bit his lip against another pitiful whimper and managed a nod.

Aramis gripped his bicep and helped him stand. Athos moved in on his other side, ready to offer support if needed. D'Artagnan gritted his teeth and forced himself to move on his own power.

The Spaniard and his goons lay dead on the floor of the barn. The glowing iron rod lay in the dirt, smoldering close to scattered hay. Porthos picked it up and shoved it into a bucket of water where it hissed and spat in a manner similar to how d'Artagnan's flesh had…

He jerked away from Aramis and Athos in time to retch. A gentle hand landed on his back and simply stayed there until he was done.

"Sorry," he murmured.

"You don't need to apologize for that," Aramis said kindly. "Ready to move?"

He nodded, swallowing back another surge of bile, and picked up his pace to get out the door into fresh air and away from the smell. Except the smell followed him.

He reached a hand up to peel away his shirt to see the burns, but Athos's hand captured it and drew it back down.

"Let Aramis tend that," he said.

D'Artagnan wordlessly let himself be led to a stump and nudged into taking a seat. Aramis went to his horse to grab his med kit and came over to join him.

"They're going to scar, aren't they?" d'Artagnan said, surprised that was the first thing that came to mind. He supposed it was because of Constance, as he couldn't help worrying over what her reaction to seeing the hideous marks would be.

"They'll leave a mark," Aramis replied diplomatically. He paused in his work to cast a sidelong look at d'Artagnan. "Women like battle scars."

D'Artagnan snorted. Maybe Aramis's women liked them; he wasn't sure about Constance.

"Yer alive," Porthos pointed out. "That's the part she'll care about."

Of course they'd know who d'Artagnan was thinking about.

He couldn't hold back a garbled cry of pain as Aramis began to clean the burns.

Porthos put a hand on his shoulder and squeezed.

Aramis's ministrations were almost as torturous as the initial burning, and d'Artagnan's chest felt raw by the time the marksman had swathed honey over the burns.

"We'll leave them uncovered," Aramis said. "Better that way."

D'Artagnan's face was hot and damp, and he felt embarrassed by his show of weakness. He lifted his head toward Athos, desperate to reclaim some of his pride. "I didn't tell them where the letters were."

Athos gazed back at him for a long moment, eyes dropping slightly to the burns on his chest. Then he nodded. "We knew you wouldn't."

D'Artagnan blinked, unsure whether he'd heard correctly.

Aramis clasped his other shoulder. "One day you'll wear the uniform you rightly deserve."

"A musketeer through and through," Porthos added with a proud smile.

D'Artagnan couldn't form words in the face of their steadfast faith and loyalty.

But despite the pain, he remembered what it was he was fighting for. And that it was worth it.


	12. Broken Bones

No 12. Broken Bones — Porthos

The musketeers spread out to surround the building where the band of rebels were hiding out within the city of Paris. It was a private house set back from the main street with its own drive. Which was good; less chance of civilians getting caught up in the fight these men were bound to put up.

Porthos hurried along the interior of the perimeter wall with Athos, Aramis, and d'Artagnan. On the other side of the courtyard, another group of musketeers were doing the same. Treville was stationed back at the gate, waiting for everyone to get into position before giving the command to breach.

Yet before he could, the front door opened and one of the rebels stepped out onto the stoop. For a brief moment, the man looked like he was just casually out for some air, but then he noticed the place was surrounded and with a shout of alarm, he darted back into the house.

"Go!" Treville yelled.

The sound of breaking glass preceded pistol shots that zinged from the windows, sending the musketeers diving for cover.

"Around back!" Treville shouted at Porthos and the others. "Don't let any escape!"

Athos broke into a sprint first, the rest of them following. The plan had been to have both ends of the building covered before launching their attack, but that had been foiled.

The four musketeers rounded the corner just as several men went fleeing out a back door. Porthos charged after one while his friends each selected their own target. The rebels weren't unarmed, though, and the clash of steel rang throughout the yard. Porthos knocked his opponent down with two swings, then turned to see who was next.

A small stable's doors suddenly burst open as a horse bolted out with a rider on its back. Porthos spun and whipped out his pistol but couldn't take aim in time as the rider charged past and kicked him in the chest so hard that he went flying backward into some crates. They snapped beneath him—as did something else—and he hit the ground with a jarring impact. The wind punched from his lungs, and he lay there for a moment, breath and vision suspended in white-hot agony.

The distorted sounds of shouts and a horse's neigh filtered back into his senses, and Porthos gasped abruptly. The juddering inhalation burned and he had to blink past white spots to see what was happening.

The horse and rider had barreled through the others, disrupting their duels and leaving d'Artagnan's back exposed as he scrambled to his feet. Porthos gritted his teeth and raised his pistol to shoot. The kickback, normally inconsequential, sent lightning shooting down his shoulder into his chest, and he fell back choking on the shock without seeing whether his shot had even hit its mark. He couldn't move, couldn't breathe.

But the not moving gradually eased the fire and the white spots winked out of his vision. He tested lifting his head again but quickly aborted the attempt when the pain in his chest threatened to make him black out completely. His breath hitched, pressure building in his lungs.

"Porthos!" Aramis ran over and dropped down beside him.

"Think I've broken somethin'" he managed to grit out between pained, shallow breaths.

"I can see that," Aramis quipped, his smile light but eyes dark with worry. "Don't move." He yanked off his gloves and began prodding up and down Porthos's rib cage, which ignited the shooting pain anew.

Porthos threw his head back against the splintered wood beneath him with a garbled cry.

"Two broken ribs," Aramis relayed. "A third cracked. Anywhere else hurt?"

Porthos shot him a glower through watery eyes. "Seri'sly?"

"Anywhere else hurt as badly as those ribs?" Aramis amended with a pointed glare of his own.

"Don' know," he said breathlessly. "It all kinda does, to be honest." Something else felt off, he just didn't know how to describe it.

D'Artagnan came hurrying over then. "Is he okay?"

"No," Aramis replied succinctly. "Get the captain. And I'm going to need bandages to bind these broken ribs before we move him."

D'Artagnan shot Porthos a wide-eyed look before darting off to do as told.

Porthos shifted slightly, gasping from the movement.

"What did I say?" Aramis chided.

"How else am I supposed ta figure out what hurts?" he growled back.

Aramis huffed and laid a comforting hand on Porthos's shoulder, but that ripped another cry from his throat.

"What?" Aramis asked urgently but didn't wait for an answer before palpating the offended area, fingers probing painfully down his back.

"Gah, stop!" Porthos snarled.

Aramis pulled his hands back. "I think you may have fractured your shoulder blade."

Porthos's brows shot upward. "Is that bad? That sounds bad."

"No broken bone is _good_ ," Aramis replied. "But it can heal like any other." He rocked back on his haunches and ran a hand over his hair. "I know breathing hurts, but you're not struggling, are you? Tell me the truth."

Porthos focused for a moment on taking a very slow, very shallow breath. It did hurt, but didn't nearly send him into oblivion. "'S okay," he said. He didn't taste blood in his mouth, so he wasn't bleeding internally, right?

D'Artagnan returned with Athos and Treville and a saddlebag of supplies.

"This is going to be tricky," Aramis said as he accepted the bag. "I think it's best if I just bind everything over your clothes until we get back to the garrison where we can then deal with getting them off."

"I'll have someone bring a cart," Treville put in.

"No," Aramis immediately countered. "The back of a wagon will be too rough and I don't want to risk one of those broken ribs shifting into a lung." He cast Porthos an apologetic look. "Think you can make it back on foot?"

"Sounds like I'll have to," he grunted. Just having Aramis lightly poke at his wounds was awful; getting jostled in a wagon would be excruciating. Not to mention that puncturing a lung thing. He definitely didn't want that.

"We'll make it," Aramis promised. "Athos, d'Artagnan, help me sit him up. _Very_ carefully."

"I'll leave you in capable hands," Treville said, casting Porthos one last grimacing look before turning and heading away.

D'Artagnan knelt on his other side while Athos crouched down at his head. He braced himself as on the count of three, they slipped their hands beneath his battered body and began to gradually shift him up. He clenched his jaw against crying out again as he felt bones grinding together.

"Alright, that's good," Aramis instructed. "D'Artagnan, can you lift his coat?"

The young Gascon undid his weapons belt and set it aside, then pushed the two folds of his leather coat up so that Aramis could wind the bandages around his torso over his shirt. Porthos bit down hard again at the pressure exerted against his rib cage.

Athos dug his fingers into the back of Porthos's neck and kneaded the coiled muscles there as he struggled to breathe through the process. And to think once they made it back to the garrison, they'd have to do it all over again.

"Alright, now that shoulder." Aramis undid his sash from his own waist and folded it width-wise to make a sling.

More shifting bones made Porthos want to scream, but he choked on stifled whimpers instead as Aramis manipulated his arm across his chest to immobilize it.

"That's the best I can do for now," the marksman said in an apologetic tone.

Porthos nodded, unable to speak past the tightness in his throat.

No one said anything, and it took Porthos a few moments to realize they were giving him time to collect himself before the next part—getting to his feet. He bit back a groan and nodded he was ready. Best get it over with.

Three pairs of hands took hold of him firmly, careful to avoid his injuries, and then they were heaving him up. This time Porthos couldn't hold back the pained grunts as he stumbled to his feet on the uneven debris of the shattered crates, nearly doubling over from the pain, which of course grated on his broken ribs.

Aramis placed a bracing hand against his upper chest, above the broken bones in the front. Athos had a hand against his lower back. And d'Artagnan had his uninjured arm slung over his shoulder.

"We got you," Aramis said. "We'll take it as slow as you need."

Oh, wouldn't that be fun, slogging through the streets and being gawked at. But riding in the cart would be worse.

Porthos took a moment to breathe in, then out, then in again, each one as shaky as the next. But he could feel his brothers' bolstering presence all around him.

"Alright," he breathed out. "Let's go."

Together.


	13. Delayed Drowning

No 13. Delayed Drowning — Aramis

Porthos sprinted through the street for the nearest ramp that led down to the bank of the Seine. Tossing a harried look out over the wall, he could still see the two figures grappling in the river, one doing his best to hold the other's head underwater.

"Move!" he shouted at people who didn't get out of his way fast enough.

A ramp was just ahead. Porthos pushed some fishermen aside and barreled down the plank to the muddy bank. By the time he made it back to the bridge, Aramis was already slogging out of the water, dragging the limp body of his opponent with him.

Porthos splashed into the shallows to help. "He dead?"

Aramis let the body drop once it was halfway out of the river and staggered away to put his hands on his knees and bow forward under a series of hacking coughs.

"Hey, you all right?" Porthos asked.

Aramis gave a wordless nod and waved him off.

Porthos bent down to check their prisoner. He was still alive.

Squelching footsteps and the clink of weapons belts announced Athos's and d'Artagnan's arrival.

"The rest of 'em?" Porthos asked.

"Dead," Athos replied, looking at Aramis. "Are you all right?"

Aramis coughed again. "Fine," he said hoarsely.

Porthos toed the unconscious man at his feet. "Guess we'll have to get our information from this one."

Athos nodded. "D'Artagnan and I will take him to the Chatelet. We'll meet you back at the garrison."

Porthos gave a subtle nod in acknowledgement of the unspoken part of that: he'd take care of Aramis.

The marksman didn't speak as they made their way back to the garrison. Porthos kept a worried eye on him, but aside from a weary slouch to his shoulders and drag in his step, he seemed all right.

Porthos walked him all the way to his room but then left him to change out of his wet clothes, saying he'd get some hot broth. Serge had to heat some up special, but after Porthos told him of Aramis's trip in the river, he was happy to do so.

Several minutes later, Porthos returned to Aramis's room and knocked. "You decent?"

He didn't receive the expected quip, but the door opened, revealing Aramis in a fresh shirt and braes, his soaked trousers and coat draped over the table.

"I'll hang those up outside to dry," Porthos said, passing Aramis the bowl of broth.

Aramis accepted it wordlessly and went to sit on his bed. Porthos took the wet clothes outside and hung them over the wooden railing. He then went back to the kitchens for some bread and wine before returning to Aramis's room.

"How's the broth?" Porthos asked, desperate for a word from his friend.

"Good," Aramis said, then turned away to cough into his elbow.

Porthos frowned.

Aramis gave him a soft look. "I'll be fine. Just swallowed a bit of water."

"Shoulda shot the bastard."

"Yes, well, wet pistols don't fire." Aramis sighed. "It'll take me hours to clean and dry them."

"Got nothin' better to do until Athos and d'Artagnan return," Porthos said with a shrug.

Aramis canted his head at that and finished his broth. He then put on an old pair of trousers and picked up his pistols, and they relocated to the table outside where Aramis set to cleaning his weapons and Porthos grabbed himself a plate of food.

Aramis worked slowly, and he'd only just finished the first pistol by the time Athos and d'Artagnan strode into the garrison.

"What'd you find out?" Porthos asked.

D'Artagnan huffed. "He claims not to know anything. He was only a hired gun and the true mastermind was one of the men we killed on the bridge."

"Convenient," Porthos said with a snort.

"We'll question him again tomorrow," Athos said, taking a seat on the bench and pouring himself a cup of wine.

Porthos turned his attention back to Aramis, who had stopped cleaning his pistol and was rubbing at his chest. "Hey, you all right?"

Aramis didn't seem to hear him. His brows were furrowed tightly and he kept rubbing at his sternum as a shuddering breath shook his frame.

"Aramis," d'Artagnan prompted.

"I can't…" he started, cutting off as his chest hitched. He tried to suck in a deep breath. "Can't- breathe."

Both Porthos and Athos were out of their seats in an instant and moving to his side. Aramis was shaking now as he struggled to get air in.

"Get Lemay," Athos barked at d'Artagnan, who immediately ran off. He nodded to Porthos. "Let's get him in the infirmary."

They both gripped Aramis's arms and hauled him to his feet, then stepped in to support him on either side as they steered him toward the infirmary. Aramis's ragged gasps punctuated each staggering step with how desperately he was struggling.

They got him inside and laid him down on the closest bed. Aramis's eyes were wide and terrified as he locked gazes with Porthos.

Porthos dropped to his knees beside the bed and clasped his hand. "Breathe with me," he urged. "In…out…"

Aramis made a horrible wheezing sound as he fought to obey, but his body just wouldn't cooperate.

Porthos looked up at Athos in horror. What was happening? But Athos didn't have a response for him, so Porthos turned back to Aramis and squeezed his hand harder. "I'm right here. Stay with me."

Aramis kept his eyes fixed on Porthos's as his body jerked and sputtered, unable to draw in enough oxygen.

The doors finally burst open as d'Artagnan hurried in with Doctor Lemay.

"What's wrong wit' him?" Porthos demanded.

Lemay rushed around to the other side of the bed and bent to examine his patient. "D'Artagnan explained what happened at the river. I believe this is delayed drowning."

Porthos's brows shot upward. That was a thing? "But he's been out of the water for hours!"

Lemay nodded. "Thus why it's called delayed. If he got water in his lungs it could have been festering this whole time." He leaned over and pressed an ear to Aramis's chest. After a moment, he straightened with a nod. "There's fluid in his lungs."

"But you can help him," Athos said. "Like you did when Treville was shot and there was blood in his lungs."

Lemay nodded. "Yes, of course."

Porthos swallowed hard as he remembered that procedure, though it had saved the captain's life.

Aramis seemed to remember as well because his eyes had widened further in alarm.

"It helped the captain, remember?" Porthos pressed in a quiet voice. "You'll be able to breathe soon, right? You trust Lemay?"

Aramis's chest hitched again but he managed a jerky nod.

Porthos heard the clinking of instruments as Lemay got prepared, but he never looked away from Aramis. His lips were turning blue.

Lemay hurried back and pulled up Aramis's shirt. "I must make an incision."

Porthos remembered.

Aramis started to turn his head toward it, but Porthos caught his face and turned it back toward him.

"Keep lookin' at me."

Athos and d'Artagnan took up position at Aramis's head and feet, prepared to hold him down. Doctor Lemay pressed the scalpel to skin.

Aramis let out a strangled scream and threw his head back as the cut was made. Porthos squeezed his hand as hard as he could and glanced over at the surgeon. His stomach churned as Lemay inserted the tube between Aramis's ribs and fluid began to leak out. Aramis's body shuddered.

"I'll have to do the other side," Lemay said as he wrapped the tube with bandages to immobilize it.

Porthos didn't want to move but he understood that Aramis likely had water in both lungs. He kept a hold of his hand as he stood and swiftly moved around Aramis's head to the other side. "It's almost over," he promised.

Lemay repeated the procedure on Aramis's right, eliciting another tortured cry. But a moment later, as water aspirated from his lungs, his shuddering breaths settled into easier ones. Porthos held his hand as he waited for Aramis's next breath, and the next. Each one was smoother, less strained, and the blue tinge to his lips began to fade.

"That's it," Porthos soothed, placing his free hand on Aramis's head. "Jus' breathe."

"He'll be okay now?" d'Artagnan asked worriedly.

Lemay nodded. "We'll let his lungs drain a little bit and then I'll remove the tubes. But yes, that should do the trick."

"Thank you," Athos said.

Aramis's eyelids fluttered as he turned a watery gaze to Porthos.

"I'm here," Porthos repeated. "Jus' breathe."

Aramis's chest rose and fell. In and out.

_Just breathe_.


	14. Is Something Burning?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one's set in my dragon rider verse, pre-series.

No 14. Is Something Burning? — Rhaego

The garrison yard was full of boisterous carousing as the men celebrated Porthos's birthday. At least, this was the day he'd picked for himself, since he didn't know the actual date of his birth. So every year Aramis made sure it was a grand thing, with the brandy and wine flowing and everyone not on duty partaking in the festivities. Porthos deserved it.

They toasted his years on this good earth, the years he'd served in the Musketeer regiment. Even Athos, who usually drank alone, found a perch only slightly off to the side to nurse his bottle and quirk his mouth on occasion at the raucous crowd, particularly Porthos's melon shooting stunt, which was tradition at this point.

Aramis stood perfectly still, back to the wooden post, with the melon balanced atop his head. Porthos swayed a little as he stumbled into place to raise his pistol. Aramis was tipsy enough himself not to be bothered by that.

The pistol shot cracked the air; the melon exploded, raining juice and rinds down on Aramis's head. Everyone cheered.

Aramis was grinning madly as he made his way back over. Someone handed him a mug of water which he poured over his head to rinse some of the sticky bits out.

"We're almost out of wine!" someone called.

"We can't have that," Aramis called back. "I'll get more."

"I'll help," Porthos volunteered, walking with him around to the back of the yard where the wagon delivery of wine had been left.

"Shoulda moved it closer," Porthos grumbled.

"And let Athos drink it all before anyone else got thirds?" Aramis scoffed.

Porthos chuckled.

They rounded the corner and pulled up short at the sight that greeted them—the barrels of wine were tipped over across the ground that was splotched with dark puddles and splinters, and right in the middle lay Aramis's scamp of a dragon, his fore claws holding onto one barrel as he clamped his jaws around the spigot and guzzled down the wine.

"Rhaego!"

The russet dragon lifted his head toward them, leaving the rest of the wine in the barrel to dribble out on the ground. He let out a toothy grin, his tongue lolling out the side of his mouth.

"You little…" Porthos growled, taking a menacing step forward.

Rhaego jerked his head up as a hiccup jolted his body. His eyes went wide in surprise. Another hiccup forced its way up, and with it came an eruption of fire that sent Aramis and Porthos scrambling out of the way. The flames skimmed across the wagon, scorching its side. Rhaego skittered backward, smashing the empty barrels as one right after the other, hiccups and burps of fire kept bursting from his mouth.

"What is going on?" Treville bellowed, having come upon the scene.

The commotion had drawn other musketeers to the ruckus, as well as some other dragons. Rhaego instinctively turned toward his den mates, eyes wide and pleading for help, but another explosion of flame sent Savron and Vrita scrambling backward to avoid getting singed.

"Damn dragon drank all the wine," Porthos scowled.

And now he was paying for it.

"Someone get Bonacieux," Treville ordered. "You four, put these flames out. And you," he turned to Aramis, "get your dragon away from the buildings before he burns the garrison down."

Aramis nodded quickly and took a step toward his dragon, though he had to immediately back up again when another stream of fire shot out. "Rhaego, come on," he coaxed, gesturing for the dragon to move out into the middle of the yard where the only thing that would be scorched would be the dirt. And Aramis if he got too close…

Rhaego stumbled along after him, not only unbalanced from his hiccups, but it was clear he was thoroughly drunk as well.

"What possessed you?" Aramis muttered.

Rhaego gave him a pitiful look as he lumbered to a stop in the middle of the yard, as far away from the buildings as possible. Another belch of fire ripped from his throat, followed by a whimper.

Aramis put his hands on his hips, helpless to do anything about it. Behind Rhaego, men rushed with buckets of water to douse the flames consuming the wagon and broken wine barrels. Aramis grimaced, figuring the cost of all that was going to come out of his commission.

Athos meandered over to him, eyeing Rhaego with a bland look. "I have never met a dragon with such propensity for mischief," he commented.

Aramis snorted. Normally he'd take that as a compliment, but not so much today.

Jean Bonacieux and his daughter Constance arrived and immediately made their way over. Both of them cast disbelieving looks at the remains of the wine barrels. Rhaego turned his head their way with a plaintive mewl, only to jerk as another hiccup erupted. Aramis's heart leaped into his throat as Jean and Constance barely dove out of the way in time. Of course, as dragon keepers, they knew how to handle such problems.

"Mix up the refroidi with some milk," Jean said to Constance.

She nodded and hurried off to one of the storerooms.

Of course, why didn't Aramis think of using the alchemical compound to extinguish Rhaego's fire? Probably because it wasn't a very nice substance to choke on while it was doing its work.

"Is that safe for him?" Aramis asked.

"We'll get him to drink it, not throw it in his mouth," Jean assured him.

Aramis eyed his dragon as he continued to hiccup and burp fire. Good luck getting close enough to get him to drink it…

Constance returned, and as Aramis expected, it took some finagling for her and her father to get close enough to Rhaego to pour the liquid into his mouth without getting their hair singed off. And of course the recalcitrant dragon was resistant to the medicine that would actually help him.

"Rhaego," Aramis finally snapped. "Sit still and take it. Unless you want to keep burping up brimstone."

Rhaego shot him a sulky glower and hunkered down. Jean and Constance waited until just after one of the hiccups to dart in and pour the mixture into his mouth. Despite watering down the abrasive compound, Rhaego still coughed and sputtered as he swallowed. Aramis tensed with worry that he'd spew out more fire before Jean and Constance could back up, but the remedy seemed to have worked instantaneously, as Rhaego made a hitched hiccup that exuded smoke instead of flame. With a drunken, exhausted sigh, he slumped fully on the ground.

"That'll take care of the fire hazard," Jean said. "As for drinking that much wine, he'll just have to sleep it off." He bent over to look Rhaego in the eye. "You'll never do that again, will you?"

Rhaego mewled pitifully, but there were few willing to give him sympathy. Even Constance gave him a reprimanding glare, though she then sat down next to him and stroked his head comfortingly.

Porthos stalked over, looking grumpy. "He done tryin' to burn the place down?"

"Looks like," Aramis replied. "I'm sorry about your birthday celebration."

Porthos shrugged. "It was fun while it lasted. And this sure will be one of the more memorable ones."

"Indeed."

Still, Aramis felt guilty that his dragon had, once again, been the source of an inconvenient amount of trouble.

"Also," Porthos went on with a meaningful look, "now we know we have to hide the wine from Athos _an_ ' this one."

"I heard that," Athos muttered.

Aramis grinned. "Perhaps you can impart some of your hangover wisdom to my fool of a dragon in the morning."

Athos shrugged and took a swill of the bottle he was still carrying around, then passed it to Porthos, who arched a dubious brow.

"Athos sharing?"

He shrugged again. "Happy birthday."

Porthos smirked and knocked back a swig, then offered it to Aramis.

Aramis waved it off. "I think I'll provide an example to this miscreant while I nurse him back to health. Constance, you don't have to stay."

"That's alright," she replied. "We both know this one's a handful."

Rhaego made a gargling sound like indignation, which only earned him several pointed looks. Hopefully he'd learned his lesson, though. Dragons and alcohol did not mix.


	15. Science Gone Wrong

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one's also set in my dragon rider verse, back in season 1 before d'Artagnan became a musketeer.

No 15. Science Gone Wrong — Athos, Aramis, Porthos, d'Artagnan

Athos pointed out the two-story masonry building as their destination, and his dragon veered downward to land in the field outside. Aramis's and Porthos's dragons landed behind them.

"So this is where the alchemist Jacquard has been conducting his business?" d'Artagnan asked, sliding out of the saddle behind Athos.

"Yes."

The musketeers dismounted and left their dragons in the field as they approached the house. Athos stopped outside the door and banged the side of his fist against it. A few moments later, a wiry youth with red hair and red cheeks opened up.

"Is your master at home?" Athos inquired.

The boy nodded. "He doesn't wish to be disturbed though—"

Athos stuck his arm through the door and pushed his way in. "We are Musketeers here on the King's business. He will receive us."

The boy sputtered, unable to do anything against the four armed men barging in. "But he's working!"

The alchemist's dwelling was like a rat's nest, packed nearly to the brim with rows and rows of shelving units containing a myriad of jars, scrolls, and other items. Athos navigated his way through the maze toward the sound of tinkering in the back.

"Monsieur Jacquard?" he called.

"Yes, what is it?" an irritated voice called back.

Athos turned a corner into a work room with a furnace and chimney and multiple cooking pots lined up in rows with glass beakers and tubes connecting them. A man with a frizzy beard and spectacles was bent over them.

"Monsieur Jacquard, I am Athos of the King's Musketeers. You are under arrest on charges of dealing with illegal substances."

The old man looked up and furrowed his brow. "What?"

Athos gestured to a crate clearly labeled as one of the contraband items.

The alchemist squinted at it. "Oh, I can explain that. I'm working! I'm developing a new formula."

"Yes," Aramis interjected. "We received reports of your experiments after they contaminated the local water supply."

Jacquard waved his hand dismissively. "A minor setback in the pursuit of advancement."

"Yeah, well, your pursuit stops now," Porthos said with a slight note of menace.

"We are here to escort you to Paris to be tried before the King," Athos went on.

Jacquard threw his hands up. "Doesn't the King see that my new formula will only benefit him and France? I must be allowed to continue."

D'Artagnan stepped forward, hand resting on the hilt of his sword. "You're done, monsieur."

Aramis nodded to the serving boy cowering by the door. "You should go home."

The lad wasted no time in bolting.

Jacquard continued to shake his head and began frantically puttering around his work station. "No, I must continue. The King will see what I have to offer him."

Athos was about to signal to Porthos to bodily drag the alchemist outside when the old man grabbed two fistfuls of different compounds and tossed them together into one of the pots. There was a flash of blinding light and a concussive force that exploded outward, whiting out everything.

When Athos came to, he found himself flat on his back and abruptly choking on a throat full of dust. His body convulsed with a series of hacks and he struggled to roll onto his side. More dust and grit sprinkled down from his hair and face; he could feel it clinging to him like chalk. Once the coughing petered out, he ran his gloved hand over his face, trying to brush the powder out of his eyes. All around him, the house was in ruins.

He opened his mouth to call for the others, only to inhale more dust that triggered another fit of coughing. Scooting around on his hands and knees, Athos searched through the rubble. He spotted Aramis only a few feet away, covered in a white coating so thick he looked like a marble gisant. But there was red underneath some of it, mixing into grit as it pooled from his hairline.

Athos crawled over and gripped his shoulder, having to restrain himself from giving his friend a small shake in case he was seriously wounded. There was only faint light peeking through a few gaps in the rubble around them, making it impossible for Athos to determine how injured he was. He squeezed Aramis's shoulder as tightly as he could but got no response. Heart hammering in his chest, he yanked his glove off and fumbled frantically to find a pulse. He nearly sagged when he did.

Alive was good. Alive he could work with.

Athos pulled off his scarf and tied it around Aramis's head wound. It was hardly clean, but there wasn't an inch of either of them that was at the moment. Athos coughed again as dust continued to tickle the back of his throat.

He heard a grunt coming from somewhere to his left and twisted around, eyes scanning the debris. Something twinged in his back and he grimaced. He could feel the bruises forming all over his body but pushed it aside for now.

The grunting became louder and Athos picked his way toward it. "D'Artagnan?"

He almost missed the young Gascon, half buried under some fallen beams and everything awash in gray.

"Athos! I'm stuck!"

Athos crawled over and examined the wreckage. "Are you injured?"

"Don't think so," d'Artagnan gritted out, still pushing against the beam pinning him.

Athos shifted position and reached down to lift. "Ready?"

D'Artagnan nodded, and Athos pushed upward. But something in his arm immediately gave out and he collapsed backward, rubbing at the strained muscle.

"I can't lift it by myself," he said regretfully. "And Aramis is unconscious." He turned his head to scan the rubble. "Porthos! Porthos!"

He got no response and ended up choking and coughing on the dust that got stirred up in his throat.

"Can you get out and get help?" d'Artagnan asked once the fit subsided.

Athos hesitated; he hated to leave them like this, but he definitely couldn't get either of them out on his own.

A creaking and grinding sound emanated from a little ways down, and the rubble started to shift, shards of sunlight lancing down to pierce the gray shroud. Athos stood and cautiously limped his way closer. The debris moved again, this time as a set of massive claws took hold and wrenched it away.

"Down here!" Athos called, trying not to shout too loud. The dragons would hear him anyway.

A shriek responded from outside and he caught a glimpse of a blue snout.

"Come this way!" Athos backtracked toward d'Artagnan, though stopped a few feet away so the dragons wouldn't be digging right on top of him, but hopefully they could pick through the debris enough to help free him. "Dig here!"

Athos backed up, watching tensely as the roof of rubble groaned above him. A few moments later, pricks of light began to break through as the dragons removed piece by piece.

Once a significant gap had been cleared, Athos shouted for them to stop. "See this beam here?" he called. "D'Artagnan's trapped underneath. Can you lift it without bringing more debris down?"

He couldn't hear the dragons conferring with each other, of course, but a minute later, Savron reached a clawed foot down and grasped the beam, then lifted. He didn't have to pull it all the way out, just enough for d'Artagnan to squirm free. Athos hobbled back to grip his arm and help pull him out.

"Okay, let it down gently!"

Savron set the beam down, then let out a querying trill.

"Wait here," Athos said, then hurried back to Aramis, who had yet to regain consciousness. Athos tried not to worry about that.

"Is he?" d'Artagnan asked fearfully, having followed.

"He's alive," Athos replied. "Help me carry him back over there."

Athos slipped his arms underneath Aramis's shoulders while d'Artagnan grabbed his ankles, and they carefully transported him over to the gap in the ceiling.

"Savron, throw down the anchor line. I need you to pull Aramis and d'Artagnan up."

There was a thwack of wing beats as Athos's dragon lifted into the air to hover directly above them. Athos saw him snake his head around to carefully nip the coiled anchor line free of its loop so one end of the rope could come falling down, the other still securely tied to the saddle.

"Get a good hold on him," Athos instructed d'Artagnan as he grabbed the rope and began to fashion a lasso.

D'Artagnan looked uncertain but nevertheless scooted closer to Aramis and half lifted him into his arms. Athos then tied the loop around the both of them as best he could. A second line came dropping down to smack his head, and Athos looked up to find Rhaego had joined Savron.

Athos gave the russet dragon a brusque nod and tied that rope around his friends as well. "Ready?" he asked d'Artagnan.

"What about you?"

"I have to find Porthos."

D'Artagnan's throat bobbed and he nodded. Athos called up for the dragons to raise them out. It wasn't a smooth maneuver, not when each flap of their wings gave a jolting ascent by a few feet each time. D'Artagnan clung desperately to Aramis, and Athos held his breath until they were clear of the wreckage and gliding away. Two safe, one to go.

Athos turned to survey the dim rubble. Nothing was recognizable, but he tried to remember where they'd been standing. Porthos had been across from d'Artagnan, so if d'Artagnan had landed there, then Porthos should be…

Athos headed off that direction, stumbling through detritus and calling his friend's name in between mental repetitions of _please be alive, please be alive_.

He jolted to a stop at the sight of a body up ahead. But no, it was leaner than Porthos. Athos inched forward, exhaling heavily when he found it was the alchemist, dead. He hadn't been so lucky in his impact with the wall. Athos felt only a modicum of sympathy. The man had been haphazardly playing with forces he didn't understand. Who was to say he wouldn't have ended up reducing the entire area to a crater if he'd been allowed to keep at it?

Athos tried to reorient himself based on Jouquard's final position, then adjusted and kept pressing on through the rubble. "Porthos!" he called hoarsely.

Then he spotted a boot and his heart dropped into his stomach once again. Athos scrambled forward, pushing aside a few lightweight pieces of debris to reveal Porthos lying underneath, coated in dust and eyes closed. And a large piece of wood sticking out of his shoulder.

Athos frantically reached out to feel for a pulse and was once again granted another miracle this day. But they were not out of danger yet.

He heard Vrita squawking outside, her throaty dragon call slightly muffled. Athos took a breath and yelled for her as loud as he could to signal their location.

A few moments later, the rubble began to shift and rumble from what sounded like a dragon climbing over it, and dust sprinkled down around them.

"Careful!" Athos shouted. "We're right here! Start digging at least six feet away!"

The movement ceased, but then started up again where Athos had directed. Now all he could do was wait as Vrita gradually broke through the detritus, then started prying more debris away in an effort to reach them.

Porthos let out a low moan.

"Easy," Athos said, pressing a hand against his uninjured shoulder. "Don't move."

"Wha 'appened?"

"The alchemist blew us all up," Athos replied dryly.

Porthos blinked a few times, brow pinching. Then his eyes widened. "Aramis? D'Artagnan!"

"They're already out," Athos assured him. "We'll be out soon. Now don't move. You have a piece of wood in your shoulder in case you hadn't noticed."

Porthos shifted his gaze to the left and then jerked it away, squeezing his eyes shut. "Damn," he breathed.

"Where's your bandana?" Athos asked. "I'm afraid I already used my scarf on another need."

Porthos grunted. "Mm, right pocket."

Athos gingerly reached over to pull it out, then wrapped it around the protruding shrapnel in an effort to stabilize it.

"Athos!" d'Artagnan called as Savron swooped down to hover above the hole Vrita had made. "Do you have Porthos?"

"Yes!"

D'Artagnan nodded in relief and threw down the anchor lines.

Athos repeated the configuration he'd made with d'Artagnan and Aramis, and then gave one of the ropes a tug to signal they were ready. The lines tightened abruptly as they were lifted off the floor, and Porthos choked on a cry of pain. Athos also gritted his teeth as the coarse rope bit into various bruises.

The dragons lifted them out of the rubble and then carried them over to a clear patch of ground and set them down as gently as they could. It was still a tad jarring with their wounds though.

D'Artagnan leaped out of Savron's saddle and hurried over to help untie them. Athos helped lay Porthos flat on the ground, then swept his gaze around in search of Aramis. He was laid out several feet away, his dragon crouched worriedly next to him. But his head was moving slightly and one hand was resting on Rhaego's leg, which meant he'd finally woken up.

Still, Athos knew Aramis wouldn't be in any shape to function as their medic right now. But it seemed the explosion had drawn a crowd from the nearby town, as Athos saw several figures in the distance making their way toward them. Hopefully there was a physician among them.

"Get this bloody thing out," Porthos growled.

"Not without proper medical supervision," Athos rejoined. "So just lie still until that can happen."

Porthos clenched his jaw and squeezed his eyes shut.

Athos looked at d'Artagnan, giving him a thorough once-over now that they were in the light. The boy met his gaze and gave him a nod; he was all right.

Athos patted his shoulder and then made his way over to Aramis.

"Oh thank God," the marksman breathed as Athos came into his line of sight. "The others?"

"I'm sure a physician will be here soon enough," Athos replied.

Aramis frowned and started trying to sit up. "How serious is…" He trailed off as he fell back, obviously overcome by a wave of dizziness.

" _Yours_ is serious enough that you are not to move until a doctor looks you over. I will fly out and retrieve one if I have to." Athos knelt down and gently pressed a hand to Aramis's shoulder. "And to ease your worry, we're all alive and in one piece." He looked at Rhaego. "Keep an eye on him."

The russet dragon snorted and plopped his head directly on Aramis's chest, which would prevent him from getting up at all.

Athos shook his head to himself. "Thank you. But be gentle," he reminded the young dragon.

He then stiffly got to his feet again and turned to deal with the next thing, but came face to face with his dragon instead. Savron gave him an appraising look and then arched a single, pointed brow at him.

Athos's lips twitched because even though he was the lieutenant and it was his responsibility to clean up this mess and see to everyone else before himself…his dragon would always look after him.

Athos let himself take a moment to lean against Savron's shoulder, his exhaustion and aches tugging him down. But they were all alive, miraculously.

Athos could take another moment to appreciate that.


	16. Shoot the Hostage

No 16. Shoot the Hostage — Athos

"Surrender!"

"Back off or I'll kill him!"

Athos couldn't believe the day he was having. He'd been minding his own business, drowning himself in his cups as usual, when a troop of the Red Guard had stormed into the tavern to arrest one of the other patrons. A patron who happened to be sitting behind Athos, and who'd grabbed the nearest person to hold as a hostage, namely him.

Now Athos had a knife to his throat and was facing down a bunch of armed red guards who frankly couldn't care less whether a musketeer ended up collateral in this little tiff with…Athos hadn't even gotten his name.

"I mean it!" the man exclaimed, hugging Athos closer to himself and pressing the knife more firmly into his jugular. Athos had to crane his neck back to avoid getting split open.

"You are under arrest," one of the red guards declared, completely ignoring the whole hostage situation.

"Did you not hear me!" the wanted man raged.

No, they obviously hadn't, though Athos refrained from pointing that out.

"This is your last chance," the red guard said.

"I'm a King's musketeer," Athos said calmly to his captor. "Killing me will guarantee you hang."

"They'll hang me anyway," the man hissed in his ear.

Well, then. Athos surreptitiously started shifting his hand toward his own dagger.

"Fine," the red guard said. "You were warned." He raised his pistol and fired.

Athos felt searing fire rip through his side and he pitched to the left. His captor fell with him and they both landed in a heap on the floor. Athos rolled over with a strangled gasp and pressed a hand to his side. Hot blood seeped through his fingers. Two red guards hurried over and dragged their writhing prisoner to his feet. Apparently the musket ball had gone straight through Athos and into him.

"What's going on here?" an enraged voice bellowed.

Athos tipped his head back to look at the door where Aramis, Porthos, and d'Artagnan stood. Aramis's eyes landed on Athos and he shoved the red guards aside. Dropping down beside him, Aramis yanked Athos's hands away from the wound briefly to get a look, then quickly pressed them back to staunch the flow of blood. Athos grimaced at the extra pressure Aramis added in his urgency.

"What happened?" Aramis barked again, shooting the red guards a murderous look.

"This man is wanted for robbery and assault," the red guard replied, giving his captive a harsh shake. "He tried to evade arrest by taking this musketeer hostage."

Aramis narrowed his eyes in a calculating manner as he took in the scene and the two wounded victims. "And you decided to shoot him? And the hostage?"

"We got our man," the red guard said haughtily. He flicked an uncaring glance down at Athos. "And yours is only winged."

"Why you—" Porthos growled and took a menacing step forward. Several red guards shifted their stances and raised their blades at him. D'Artagnan whipped his out in response.

"Enough," Athos snapped. He reached up to grab the edge of a nearby table to haul himself upright.

Aramis gripped his shoulder in a preemptive warning to prevent him from trying to stand. Fine.

Athos glowered at the lot of red guards. "Take your prisoner and go. But Captain Treville will hear of this."

The men snorted, not caring one whit what Captain Treville said about it. There was a vitriolic staring contest as the red guards collected their prisoner and slowly vacated the premises.

Athos slumped backward with a groan.

"Can you make it back to the garrison?" Aramis asked.

Athos grunted an affirmative. He certainly wasn't going to stay on the tavern floor like this.

Porthos came over and helped Aramis pull Athos to his feet. The room spun from the change in elevation, the blood loss, and probably the bottle or two of wine he'd already consumed before his night had been ruined.

"I can't believe they shot you," d'Artagnan said, still oh so young.

"Bastards," Porthos growled.

"We'll report the incident to Treville and let him handle it," Athos said in a tone that brooked no argument.

He bit back a pained cry as fire lanced through his side.

"But if there's ever an occasion where one of the red guards is being held hostage," he added breathlessly. "You can shoot them."


	17. Wrongfully Accused

No 17. Wrongfully Accused — Aramis

Aramis stepped out onto the front stoop and tipped his head back to look at the night sky.

"Why do you never tempt me with your wiles, Aramis?" Charlotte asked, holding the door behind him. "I am aware of your reputation."

He smiled as he set his hat upon his head. "Because your virtue is strong enough to resist, so why waste my efforts?"

She huffed. "I suspect no woman's virtue can withstand your charms when used to their fullest."

He flashed her his typical dashing grin, even though his heart wasn't fully in it. "It would hardly be appropriate to take such a detour from our theological discussions."

"True," she conceded. "I do appreciate you indulging my indecisive ramblings."

This time Aramis's smile was more genuine. "It's a weighty decision, whether to join the convent, and not something to come to lightly."

Charlotte nodded. "I just wish I knew whether my hesitation was divine prompting or my own doubts. I know, I should pray on it more."

His lips twitched. "And I shall pray you receive guidance. Call on me next week if you need a listening ear again."

Charlotte smiled and leaned out to give him a peck on the cheek.

Aramis bade her goodnight and stepped out into the street to make his way back to the garrison. He had only gone a few blocks when something slammed into the back of his head, driving him to his knees. Black spots burst across his vision, and before he could regain his senses, someone was hauling him up by the back of his coat and throwing him against the wall.

"You filthy swine," someone spat.

A punch to Aramis's stomach drove the wind from his lungs, and he doubled over with a dry heave. His assailant didn't let him catch his breath before a knee was slammed up into his face. Then he was seized and swung around again, his head smashing into the wall. Aramis dropped to the ground, struggling to breathe. A kick to his ribs put an end to that, and he blacked out even as the blows continued to descend with relentless ferocity.

.o.0.o.

Porthos was woken by sounds of a commotion in the garrison yard. It was late, probably not even past midnight, so he quickly shucked on his boots and hurried outside to see what was happening. His heart nearly stopped at the sight of Aramis being carried in on a litter. His face was bruised, swollen, and bloody and hardly recognizable, but Porthos knew that blue sash.

"What happened?" he exclaimed as he followed them into the infirmary.

"He's been badly beaten," Alain said as he and another musketeer set the litter on the nearest bed.

As the lanterns were lit, Aramis's state was cast in full light, and it stole Porthos's breath. Beaten within an inch of his life was more like it.

"Did you get the captain?" Porthos asked.

Alain nodded. "He's gone for Doctor Lemay."

Good, that was good.

"You should get Athos," Porthos said next.

The doors burst open, but it wasn't the physician.

"What's going on?" d'Artagnan asked, but then his gaze landed on Aramis. His eyes blew wide and he threw a hand up to cover his mouth. "What happened?"

"We don't know," Alain answered. "Someone came to the garrison to report he was lying in the street like that. They thought he was dead."

Porthos moved closer, heart clenching at the hideous swelling and bruising mottling his best friend's face. There had to be more than just that…

"Help me get him undressed for the doctor," he said, waving d'Artagnan over.

The young Gascon scrambled toward the bed and started unfastening the clasps of Aramis's coat.

"I'll get Athos," Alain said and left.

Porthos and d'Artagnan had just gotten Aramis's shirt off—revealing a host of bruises on his torso as well—when Treville hurried in with Lemay.

"Good Lord," the physician gasped. "Alright, stand aside and let me see what we're dealing with."

Porthos and d'Artagnan reluctantly backed away to let the doctor do his work. None of them spoke as they watched tensely, not until Athos came bursting in, expression taut with worry. He took one look at Aramis and turned to the others.

"Who did this?"

"We don't know," Treville replied. "But it doesn't appear to have been a robbery, as his possessions were still on him."

Athos took a few steps toward the bed. "How is he?"

Lemay shook his head. "Multiple contusions, I don't think any are bleeding internally. But what has me concerned is this gash above his eye." He indicated the jagged wound he was currently dabbing at with a wet cloth.

"Why?" Porthos asked, straightening sharply.

Lemay sighed. "He may be blind when he wakes. If he wakes at all."

They all exchanged horrified looks at that.

Treville nodded to Athos. "Wake the rest of the garrison. I want whoever did this found."

Athos gave a clipped nod in return and headed out. D'Artagnan cast a hesitant look at Aramis before hurrying after him.

Porthos wanted to go with them, wanted to hunt down the bastards that did this, but at the same time he couldn't bring himself to leave Aramis's side, not when his life was hanging so delicately in the balance.

The captain gave him an understanding nod and stepped out, leaving Porthos to keep vigil as Lemay worked to clean and bandage what he could. After the doctor had exhausted his skills, he left instructions for what they should do when Aramis woke—depending on his condition when he did.

And then Porthos was alone. He sat at Aramis's bedside, silently pleading for him to wake up. But as the night wore on, Aramis didn't wake. And Porthos didn't sleep.

The following morning, the tranquility was once again disturbed by a commotion. Porthos rose from his place of vigil and went to the door to peek out. Athos, d'Artagnan, and a couple other musketeers were dragging a bound man into the garrison. Porthos stormed out to meet them; they wouldn't have brought this fellow unless he had something to do with what happened to Aramis.

Treville came out as well. "Who is this?"

"Monsieur Bouchard," Athos said. "We found a broken pocket watch at the scene of the attack with his name etched on the back. And when we went to return it, we found his pocket chain not only broken, but there was blood on it."

Porthos's ire was fizzling beneath the surface, and he wanted nothing more than to pummel this bastard into the ground like he'd done to Aramis.

Treville nodded, maintaining a calm exterior. "You are hereby charged with assaulting a King's Musketeer."

"I was within my right!" the man snarled. "That bastard defiled my marriage bed!"

Porthos closed his eyes for a brief moment. Of course it had to be a cuckold husband.

"He runs around defiling practically every woman in the city!" Bouchard continued to rage.

Treville's jaw looked tight with exasperation as well. "Take him to the Chatelet until he can be brought before a judge."

Athos passed the man off to the other musketeers, who hauled him away while he continued to rant against that "Lothario bastard."

Treville exhaled heavily. "Aramis never learns his lesson," he groused.

D'Artagnan looked affronted. "Surely you're not saying he deserved this, Captain."

"Of course not," Treville snapped. "But I can hardly defend my musketeer in court if he keeps having affairs with married women."

"Having an affair is not against the law," Athos pointed out.

"No, but it doesn't help his cause either."

"Any improvement?" d'Artagnan asked Porthos.

He regretfully shook his head. "Hasn't even woken yet."

He was ready to go back into the infirmary when a woman came hurrying into the garrison.

"Excuse me," she said. "My husband was arrested this morning and I was told he was brought here. Where is he?" She swept her gaze around, but before any of them could explain the situation to her, someone called out,

"Marie!"

Another musketeer, Joubert, came hurrying over and the two embraced in such a familiar manner that the rest of them were gaping dumbly in response.

"Oh, thank goodness you're okay," she gushed. "When they took my husband away, they said he attacked a musketeer, and I was so worried…"

"Hang on," Porthos interrupted. "You were sleeping with Bouchard's wife too?"

Joubert ducked his gaze and tugged self consciously at his hat.

"I know it's wrong," the woman answered first. "But Joubert and I fell in love. I didn't think my husband had found out about it, and I never expected him to do something like this."

Joubert frowned. "Something like what?"

"Are you telling me, soldier," Treville said sharply, skewing Joubert with a severe glare, "that you're unaware Aramis was nearly beaten to death last night?"

The young man's eyes widened. "What? No." He glanced at Marie. "Your husband did it? Why?"

"And you, Madame," Athos put in, "are unfamiliar with the musketeer Aramis?"

Marie shook her head. "I've never met him."

Porthos couldn't believe it, and they all shared equally incredulous looks at the revelation, especially because they'd all just accepted that Aramis was guilty. It wouldn't have been out of character for him.

Treville dismissed Joubert, who went off with Marie to speak privately.

"Well," Porthos snorted. "I didn't see that coming."

"Me neither," d'Artagnan commented.

"At least in court there is no defense for attacking the wrong man," Athos said.

Treville nodded. "But because another musketeer was having an affair with the man's wife?" He shook his head and headed up to his office.

The rest of them made their way back into the infirmary to check on Aramis, who of course had to be just waking up when no one was around.

Porthos hurried to his side and clasped one hand, resting his other on Aramis's head to prevent him from moving about too much. "Aramis? Can you hear me?"

"Mm, Porthos?"

"Yeah, right here. Can you look at me?" He held his breath as Aramis's eyelids fluttered sluggishly, his eyes looking straight up at nothing. Then they shifted a fraction, meeting Porthos's.

"What happened?" Aramis whispered.

Porthos squeezed his hand fervently. He could see, thank God.

"What do you remember?" Athos asked gently, coming to stand at his head.

Aramis squinted, but that seemed to cause pain and he moaned and closed his eyes. "I don't know. Was attacked, I think. Didn't see his face."

Porthos patted his arm. "We caught the bastard."

Aramis's brow pinched as he tried to open his eyes again. "Why?" he croaked.

"The man thought you were having an affair with his wife," d'Artagnan answered. He grimaced. "Turns out it was another musketeer."

Porthos flashed Aramis a cheeky grin. "Easy mistake to make," he joked.

Aramis just stared at him with this strange, distressed look. "I haven't… Not since…" He broke off and turned his face into the pillow.

Porthos frowned. Not since what?

"Just rest," Athos said gently before Porthos could probe that further, and there was an odd look in his eye as he said it, like he knew what Aramis meant and was trying to deflect.

Porthos filed that away under something to follow up on later. After his brother was recovered enough to endure some questioning. Right now all that mattered was that he would recover.


	18. Panic

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning for rats.

No 18. Panic — d'Artagnan

D'Artagnan's chin hung against his chest. He barely had the strength to draw breath, let alone lift his head. Only the ropes binding him to the rickety chair were keeping him seated upright. Sweat, blood, and grime beaded along his jaw, forming muddy droplets that splashed onto his damp trousers.

"I can see you're not going to tell me anything."

His captor shifted, little more than a dark blob in the dimly lit culvert in the sewers beneath the city that served as his interrogation chamber. Rogue agents didn't exactly have prime pickings, and there was no one this far down to hear the screams.

D'Artagnan didn't respond; his open defiance had run out a while ago along with his voice. All he had left was that single-minded goal not to reveal the information.

His captor drew his knife, already splattered with the musketeer's blood in varying degrees of drying. D'Artagnan didn't have the energy to tense, though his pain-addled brain struggled to process what was happening. If his interrogator had given up torturing him for the information, then…

D'Artagnan tried to jerk away, even though his bonds were so tight that none of his earlier thrashing had done any good. But his captor merely bent down toward the ground. A second later, d'Artagnan whimpered at the deep slice that cut through his leg.

"The rats can finish you off."

D'Artagnan whipped his head up in horror. "No…" he rasped.

The man merely smirked, picked up the single torch, and backed out of the culvert. The light gradually receded, until the darkness swallowed d'Artagnan whole.

He struggled further, but the extra exertion of energy he didn't have only left him sagging in exhaustion and panting for breath.

"No, please," he begged, but there was no one to hear him. He was trapped, alone, strapped to that chair and trembling from cold, blood loss…and terror.

He wanted to be grateful the man hadn't simply slit his throat and left him down here, wanted to think that maybe there was still time for him to be found.

But the truth was he'd given up on being rescued after the second—third?—day. No one would think to look for him in the sewers. No one would know where to search for him in the underground labyrinth.

D'Artagnan was ashamed that a tear slipped down his cheek. It wasn't the first time during this captivity; he'd thought of Constance many times when the pain had been so severe he _almost_ thought of giving in.

But he'd upheld his honor. And for what? To die like this?

Something skittered in the darkness. D'Artagnan went rigid, holding his breath and listening with all his might. Blood rushed in his ears and his heart pounded so loudly he couldn't hear anything else. Then something squeaked.

"No, please," he begged again, maybe to God this time, then yelled to the darkness, "Stay away!"

There was more skittering and shuffling—or was that his overactive imagination filling in gaps in the blackness prematurely?

A small body brushed against his leg and his heart rate went into overdrive, nearly punching out of his chest.

"No!" he screeched, desperate to frighten them away.

But this was their turf and their prey was helpless to actually cause them harm. Tiny claws gripped the sides of his trousers and began to climb, wiry whiskers brushing the lacerated skin in his calf as the rat sought out the fresh blood.

"Get off, get off!"

Excited squeaks filled the darkness as more converged on the culvert. D'Artagnan screamed and yelled until his lungs felt fit to burst and he was hyperventilating. White spots sparked across his vision, the only light in the inky blackness…until several pairs of red eyes suddenly gleamed off the ground.

"D'Artagnan!" a voice called.

It took him a moment to realize it wasn't an echo of his own screaming, and he could see the rats because bobbing torchlight was coming down the adjoining passage…

"In here!" he yelled. "In here, please!" He glanced down and let out a sob at the cluster of rats pawing at his leg.

His friends came barreling around the corner, their eyes blowing wide at the sight that greeted them.

"Get! Get!" Porthos barked, kicking at the rats on the ground.

Athos swung his torch at the ones near d'Artagnan's legs while Aramis rushed in and used his hat to bat others off his body.

"You're here," d'Artagnan kept sobbing. "You found me."

"We're sorry we didn't find you sooner," Aramis said, reaching behind him to cut him free.

Not that d'Artagnan had the strength to stand, even with the panic of the rats coursing through his blood.

Aramis let out a low curse. "Porthos, help me."

Porthos turned away from chasing off the rodents to come pull one of d'Artagnan's arms over his shoulder. Aramis took the other, and d'Artagnan couldn't hold back the pained cry as it pulled his many wounds.

"Di-didn't wanna die like that," he mumbled.

"You're not going to die," Aramis replied sharply. "We'll get you back to the garrison and send for Doctor Lemay."

"No," d'Artagnan muttered. "Y-you do it."

Aramis pressed his free hand against d'Artagnan's chest as they hobbled along. "I will. But it looks like I'm going to need some extra hands."

D'Artagnan's chin slumped downward. He was so drained…

"Porthos," Aramis said quietly, and the next moment d'Artagnan felt himself being lifted into his friend's broad arms. Despite the flames flickering from Athos's torch, d'Artagnan's vision was darkening, taking him back down that tunnel.

"The rats," he whimpered.

"They're gone," Aramis assured him.

"Can't see 'em coming. Hear 'em…"

"We'll leave the lamps on," Aramis said.

"And I'll shoot any rat that tries to enter the garrison," Athos added.

D'Artagnan smiled faintly. That made him feel better, actually.

There was a brush of crisp night air as they stepped out of the sewers and into an open night alight with stars.


	19. Survivor's Guilt

No 19. Survivor's Guilt — Aramis

Aramis stands at the edge of the Musketeer cemetery, twenty fresh graves laid out before him. He'd missed the funeral, half out of his mind from fever and the head wound that left him confused and insensate most of the time. Treville had apologized for not being able to wait, but the ground had been soft at the time and they couldn't risk a cold spell coming in and freezing everything before they'd laid the bodies to rest. Aramis understands, on some level. On the surface, though, he feels betrayed—and like the betrayer.

Aramis stands bereft, the images of his brothers-in-arms, his friends, being cut down and slaughtered flashing through his mind. He can't make it stop. He and Marsac leap into the fray. They know they'll die fighting but they are musketeers.

And then they don't.

Tumultuous emotions churn and seethe inside him. Marsac saved his life. Marsac left him there to die. Twenty fresh graves when there should have been twenty-one.

"Oi! What the hell do you think yer doin' out here?"

Aramis closes his eyes. He knew he wouldn't be able to escape his keeper for long, but he had to come out, had to see them.

"You didn't even grab yer cloak," Porthos growls, shucking off his leather coat and draping it over Aramis's shoulders.

It's warm and Aramis instinctively folds into it, but the heat can't reach the glacial numbness in his heart.

Porthos sighs at his silence. "Come back inside, Aramis. They'll still be here later."

Aramis has nothing to say to that, so he turns and mutely lets Porthos lead him back to his room. The walk out had been fueled by an almost compulsive need, but the return trek leaves him weary and shuffling along, exhaustion overcoming his feeble body once more.

"I see you found him," Athos says, coming to meet them in the garrison yard.

"He was at the gravesite," Porthos replies quietly, but of course Aramis hears him. Sometimes he hates their concern; other times he desperately clings to it when it's not just Marsac that walks away in his dreams, but Porthos and Athos as well.

They hem him in and escort him back to his room with its many blankets and table crowded with tonics and medicine. His physical wounds are mending; it's the aftereffects he's still struggling with.

Porthos and Athos sit him on the edge of the bed and Porthos proceeds to remove his boots while Athos mixes up a drink for him.

"Why didn't I die with them?" Aramis finds himself saying aloud.

His friends go still and exchange a look. Aramis doesn't expect them to have an answer. Only God can answer his question and Aramis has prayed and prayed and not received an answer yet.

"I should have died with them," he whispers.

"Don't say that," Porthos says, voice simultaneously harsh and broken.

Aramis lifts his gaze. "Twenty dead. I- I left them there."

"You said Marsac pulled you to safety," Athos interjects carefully.

Aramis reaches up to clutch his aching head. Yes, Marsac did that. Marsac saved him.

And then left him behind with twenty of their dead friends. Aramis should have joined them in the grave.

"Why didn't I die?" he repeats, voice cracking with a sob. "Why should I get to live and they didn't?"

Athos sets the cup he's holding on the table and pulls a chair over so he can sit facing Aramis on his eye level. "You'll never get an answer to that, Aramis." He opens his mouth, hesitates, eyes going distant and haunted for a moment. "And continuing to agonize over it will only destroy you."

He speaks as though from experience. Aramis knows there's a darkness in Athos, something he keeps carefully guarded from the rest of them. He wants to ask, wants to plumb those depths and poke at those wounds so he won't have to feel the intensity of his own.

But he doesn't; he's not so cruel. He withdraws back into himself and turns away to lie down on his side.

Porthos picks up the blankets and drapes them over him. "I'm glad you didn't die," he says softly. "I ain't got many friends in this world."

Aramis lost twenty-one.

Porthos got to keep his two.

Is there some cosmic balance in that? Some grand plan in God's will?

But again, God is silent on the matter. And Aramis will just have to find a way to live with it.


	20. We're Not In France Anymore

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Set in my dragon rider verse because who doesn't love a bamf dragon rescue?

No 20. We're Not In France Anymore — Porthos & Aramis

Porthos woke to the sensation of rocking, up and down, up and down…almost like riding a dragon. Yet there wasn't the puff of crisp air in his face, but a cold, tacky spray hitting his cheek. The one that wasn't pressed against the side of gritty wood paneling.

He prized his eyelids open and lifted his aching head. A fresh pulsing in his skull had him briefly squeezing his eyes shut again, and he raised a hand to clutch at the source of the pain. There was a metallic clink and something heavy bumped against his knee while simultaneously weighing down his wrist.

Porthos's eyes snapped open again and he looked down, blinking blearily at the manacles on both arms. There were shackles on his ankles too, attached to bolts in the narrow floor between the bench seat he was propped up on and the wooden stick suspended in the air right in front of his chest.

No, not a stick…an oar. And that saccharine smell on the air… Porthos jerked his head toward a porthole on his right that the oar was sticking out of—and the vast ocean waves rippling out as far as the eye could see. His heart dropped into his stomach and he whipped his gaze around the interior of the ship. Rows and rows of benches filled with shackled rowers lined the deck up and down.

Porthos abruptly became aware of the body slumped against his left shoulder. "Aramis!"

He reached over and shook his friend, eliciting a moan as Aramis struggled his way to a similar rude awakening.

"What…?" Aramis squinted and looked around, taking a moment to process everything as Porthos had, while Porthos was well on his way to panicking.

They were on a galley ship, shackled as slaves for the rowing, and were already out to sea…

A sailor strode down the aisle, roving a scrutinizing gaze over the men. He paused in front of the musketeers. "Good, you're awake. Get to work."

Porthos gritted his teeth and attempted to stand, but of course the chains gave him no slack.

The sailor smirked and drew a switch with multiple tails from his belt. "You row, or you'll be made an example of. And just as a word of warning—salt water in open wounds is even worse than the whipping."

"Do you have any idea who you've unlawfully taken captive?" Aramis challenged.

The sailor stepped forward and pressed the tip of the switch up under Aramis's chin, forcing his head back. "Out here, the only law is the captain's. And you work for him now." He withdrew. "Or you get tossed overboard after getting cut up. Easier for the sharks to find you."

Both musketeers glowered at the man in a tense standoff. It grated Porthos to his soul to be bound and chained as a slave. Part of him wanted to dare his captor to follow through with his threat, wanted to die instead of be reduced to this life.

But it wasn't just him he had to consider, so with a grudging look at Aramis, he took hold of the oar and began to row. Aramis's jaw ticked, but he did the same.

The sailor gave them a smug look and continued his walk down the length of the galley deck.

"We're already out to sea?" Aramis asked in a low voice, looking out the porthole for the first time. "For how long?"

"Don't know," Porthos replied gruffly. "I woke up jus' a few minutes before you."

"We were grabbed last night. Can you see how high the sun is? Maybe they only recently left port…"

"For what good it does us," Porthos snapped. "It's too late. Once slaves are on the ships, they're lost forever."

"Porthos…" Aramis said softly.

He shook his head, fighting back the roiling emotions threatening to strangle him. "I used to have nightmares about this," he confessed. "Bein' taken away in the night, put on a ship. I heard the stories…"

He knew death would be better than the life in store for both of them.

"Athos will be looking for us," Aramis insisted.

"He won't have any idea where to look," Porthos hissed.

The two of them had gone to a tavern to drink, play cards, and flirt with the wenches. The only reason Athos hadn't been with them was because he was finishing up with the local magistrate they'd come to the port town to see in response to complaints made to the King. And people being kidnapped as galley slaves hadn't been one of them.

"We can't give up just yet," Aramis pressed, but his voice had begun to waver. They both knew they were never getting off this ship again. They would be worked until they keeled over.

Already, Porthos's shoulders were beginning to ache from the repetitive motion of rowing the oar. There was no way he could endure this day in and day out until he was a shell of a man, a worn out husk like some of the rowers sitting across the aisle from him. No, he didn't want to die that way…

The ship suddenly lurched to one side, throwing Porthos against the hull and Aramis into him. What the…

A dragon screech echoed from outside, and Porthos's eyes widened in disbelief. It couldn't be.

Aramis flashed him a beaming grin, but then was flung the other direction as the ship was violently rocked to the opposite side. Somewhere above, Porthos heard the sound of wood beginning to snap.

The sailor overseeing the rowers sprinted down the aisle toward the companionway, only to skid to a stop as another figure came charging down, sword drawn. Porthos could have wept at the sight of Athos, his normally stoic expression set with steely vengeance as he pointed his blade at the sailor's throat.

"I imagine you have keys to all these shackles?" he asked calmly.

The sailor reluctantly reached into his pocket to produce it.

"Start unlocking them," Athos ordered.

Porthos fidgeted in his seat; they were about a third of the way down the deck and had to wait as Athos first had the men ahead of them freed.

"I'm afraid you'll have to keep your posts a little longer, gentlemen," Athos said loudly. "You'll have to row this ship back to port, as the main mast has suffered some damage."

"Damage?" Aramis asked now that Athos was close enough.

"Vrita is very angry," he replied as the sailor unlocked Aramis, then Porthos.

Porthos surged to his feet and seized the man by the collar, swinging him around and throwing him down in the seat Porthos had just vacated. "You can help row," he growled, snatching up the manacles and snapping them around his wrists. He then took the key from the slaver and passed it to the person sitting behind him to unlock their own chains.

Porthos turned to his friends. "I think we should invite the other sailors to pitch in down here."

Aramis grinned. "I couldn't agree more."

The three of them turned and made their way up the companionway and onto the deck where sailors had been herded toward one end of the ship by Savron and Rhaego flying around the sides and snapping their jaws viciously. Porthos looked up and spotted his green dragon perched precariously on a broken top mast that was tangled in the lines.

"Surrender your weapons," Athos shouted.

One of the sailors defiantly drew a pistol and shot at Savron, but of course the lead ball glanced off his scales. Vrita shrieked in response and started rocking the ship violently again, pitching everyone off their feet. Which unfortunately included the musketeers.

"Vrita!" Porthos yelled.

She immediately stopped and gazed down through the rigging at him, then pushed away from the broken mast to swing around and hover off the port side. Porthos walked over to the bulwark and reached out to pat her snout.

"I appreciate the enthusiasm," he told her sincerely. "But I think we got it from here."

"As I was saying," Athos said loudly. "Surrender your weapons and live or I will let the dragons pick you off one by one."

The sailors exchanged frightened looks at that and started throwing their weapons down. Porthos and Aramis moved in to snatch them up while Athos gestured for the men to head below deck. Once the slavers were shackled in, they began rowing the ship back to the French port.

"I didn't think you'd find us," Porthos confessed as the three of them stood on the quarterdeck with their dragons flying overhead, France's shoreline on the horizon.

"I was worried we wouldn't," Athos replied sagely. "I'm afraid I didn't note your absence until this morning. It was plain luck that I came across a man in possession of your weapons. They're in your saddlebags, by the way. And when I introduced him to Vrita and Rhaego, he was more than forthcoming on the galley slave operation he was involved in and the name of the ship you were taken to."

Aramis clapped Porthos on the shoulder. "See? We just needed to have faith."

Porthos huffed. He wasn't inclined to believe in God stepping in to save him.

His best friends, though…yeah, they always came through for him.


	21. Infection

No 21. Infection — Porthos

Aramis peeled back the corner of the bandage, looked at the open wound still draining, and folded the cloth back down with a weary sigh. This infection was being persistent. If the gash was still weeping in an hour, he would have to flush it again, a process that was becoming more and more tortuous for him and his patient.

Porthos moaned and turned his head back and forth against the pillow, his normally buoyant curls plastered to his head with sweat. Aramis reached into a bowl of water to pick up the cloth soaking in it, wrung it out, then folded it over Porthos's brow. He moaned again, his eyelids lifting sluggishly to reveal fever-glazed irises.

"Mmph, don' feel so good," he mumbled.

"I know," Aramis said, folding the cloth over again and wiping the sweat around Porthos's face.

Porthos's brows knitted together. "Wha's wrong wit' me?"

"Your wound is infected," he answered honestly. "You took a sword slice to the side five days ago, remember?"

Porthos squinted at him for a long moment. "No."

Aramis gave him a wan smile. "That's all right. Just rest."

Porthos shifted slightly and grunted. "'M gonna die?" he croaked.

"No," Aramis said firmly, even as his heart clenched with that very fear. "The wound is still draining. You can still beat this. You just have to fight."

Porthos closed his eyes again. "Don' wanna die," he mumbled. "Don' wanna die like my mother."

Aramis didn't know what to say to that. He could promise Porthos he wasn't going to die, even though it wasn't a promise he could keep should the infection end up having its way. He could insist this wasn't the same as the sickness that claimed his mother, but what did that matter, really? Besides, any argument he could try to make wouldn't pierce very far into the veil of confusion and delirium currently gripping his friend.

So Aramis settled with rinsing the cloth, wringing it out again, and settling it back on Porthos's forehead. He hadn't realized anyone had silently slipped into the infirmary until Athos quietly said his name, and he looked up to see him and d'Artagnan standing there with fresh bandages and supplies. By the fraught expressions on their faces, it seemed they'd heard Porthos's feverish rambling.

Aramis cleared his throat. "Did you bring more ingredients for a poultice?"

D'Artagnan nodded and started forward with his armful of items.

"Why don't you let d'Artagnan mix it up," Athos spoke up, causing the young Gascon to halt before handing the stuff over.

Aramis shook his head and stood. "I could do it in my sleep."

"You could, if you were getting any sleep at all," Athos rejoined. "Let d'Artagnan practice."

D'Artagnan cast a hesitant look between them before turning on his heel and going to the work station to make up the poultice himself.

Aramis sighed and started to sink back into the chair by Porthos's bed, but Athos strode over and gripped his elbow, preventing his descent. Without a word, he tugged the marksman back up and toward the door. Aramis braced himself for the questions he couldn't answer…didn't want to answer.

But once they were outside, Athos released him to lean wearily against the support beam and simply stood there.

"Porthos is a fighter," Athos said after a long moment. "And he's young and strong. If anyone can overcome this, he can."

Aramis furrowed his brow. "I thought you brought me out here to give you reassurance."

Athos snorted. "I brought you out here for some fresh air. You haven't left that room in days. You're starting to look like a patient yourself."

Aramis ran a hand through his greasy hair. He couldn't think about his own trivial needs when his brother's life was hanging so precariously in the balance. "Perhaps if my skills were better…"

"Doctor Lemay was here earlier. Even he said there was nothing more he could do."

"Then perhaps if my soul did not carry the blight of so many sins, God would hear and answer my prayers," Aramis said in a whisper.

Athos's mouth turned down. Aramis knew his views on God. Perhaps that was why he'd confessed this secret fear, because he knew Athos wouldn't contradict him, which was as good as an affirmation.

"I wouldn't know," Athos finally said. "But He hasn't taken Porthos yet."

Aramis dropped his head against the wooden beam. No, not yet.

Taking a breath, he straightened and turned to go back inside. D'Artagnan was sitting by Porthos's bedside, bowl of paste in his lap.

"The poultice is ready," he said when they entered.

Aramis nodded and walked over. He almost reached to take the bowl automatically but caught himself. Instead, he peeled back the bandage to expose the wound and gestured to the young Gascon to go ahead and apply it.

D'Artagnan arched a brow in brief surprise but went ahead and started under Aramis's supervision. Athos brought a cup of wine over to Aramis and pushed it pointedly into his hand. Aramis sipped at it while d'Artagnan worked. Porthos moaned throughout the process but didn't wake again. Once d'Artagnan had finished covering the wound, Aramis helped him apply a clean bandage. Then they were back to waiting and praying.

Athos nudged Aramis. "Get some sleep."

Aramis started shaking his head but Athos skewered him with a severe glare.

"Neither of us is going anywhere. We'll wake you if needed."

Aramis hesitated, casting a fearful look back at Porthos. Porthos was afraid he'd slip away from sickness like his mother; Aramis was afraid he'd wake to find his brother gone like a young Porthos had.

Athos settled a hand on his shoulder. "One hour."

Aramis finally relented. "One hour," he agreed.

He shuffled to the next bed over and lay down, exhaustion already making his limbs feel like lead. He was asleep within moments.

The hour felt like ten minutes when a hand gently shaking his shoulder jolted him awake.

"Porthos!" he exclaimed, bolting upright groggily.

"Still with us," Athos said.

Aramis swung his legs over the side of the bed and lurched to his feet to see for himself. But it was just as Athos said—Porthos was still with them, and still battling the fever.

"The poultice won't be dry for another couple of hours," d'Artagnan said. "You can go back to sleep until it's time to check it."

Aramis ran his fingers through his hair. D'Artagnan spoke wisely. It was just difficult, not staying on watch. Porthos wouldn't leave if it was him.

Unless Athos bullied him into looking after himself, as the swordsman was currently doing with a pointed glare directed at Aramis now. And of course d'Artagnan would be there to take over the vigil at times. It wasn't all on one set of shoulders.

So with a weary, accepting nod, Aramis slogged back to bed.

The next time he woke, it was less jarring, though he still felt as though he needed to sleep for several more days.

"I washed the poultice off," d'Artagnan said. "I think it helped. Want to look?"

Of course he wanted to look. Aramis rose stiffly once again and staggered into the empty chair by Porthos's bed. The wound was gaping open and the flesh around it was pink from the poultice. Aramis reached out and gently felt around the torn tissue. There was less heat. And less inflamed red. That was a good sign. He reached up to press the back of his hand to Porthos's brow. The fever seemed lower too.

"That's good, right?" d'Artagnan pressed.

Aramis nodded and managed a tired smile. "I believe so."

"Should we do another poultice?"

Aramis bent to examine the wound again. "Let's let it air for a bit first. See if it improves on its own or starts to drain again."

"Why you keep pokin' me?" a bleary voice croaked.

"Porthos!" d'Artagnan exclaimed. "How are you feeling?"

Porthos prized his eyelids open and blinked wearily at them. "Not that great. What happened?"

"Your wound became infected and you've had a fever for four days," Athos answered.

Porthos moaned, but then shifted his gaze to Aramis. "Sorry I worried ya."

Aramis huffed out a watery laugh. "I should be used to it by now."

"You're far from fully recovered, though," d'Artagnan put in, taking on the medic tone that Aramis usually wielded. The young Gascon was learning well.

Porthos grunted and closed his eyes.

Aramis let his head drop, relief and lingering fear still warring within him. Then he felt a warm hand weakly patting his arm and he looked up to find Porthos looking at him.

"Not goin' anywhere," he breathed.

Aramis smiled and squeezed his brother's hand. "Of course not."


	22. Drugged

No 22. Drugged — Aramis

"How do you like the pheasant?" Elaine Velois asked.

Aramis smiled over his plate as he finished chewing his mouthful and swallowed. "It's excellent."

In truth, it was rather over spiced to the point where he had to take a sip of wine nearly every other bite, but he wasn't going to be rude, especially when his mission here was to get close to the wealthy Madame Velois. The Musketeers believed she was involved in some illegal business but they had no proof. Yet. If Aramis charmed her properly, she might take him into her confidence. Or at least let her guard down.

So far this evening, though, there hadn't been any other visitors, and soon enough Aramis was going to have to make the decision whether to call it a night or go the seductive route. He knew what his friends would think of that, but all in the name of duty, right?

Elaine continued to watch Aramis eat, almost with an intensity that slightly wrong-footed him, especially since she barely picked at her own food. Perhaps it wasn't to her taste either.

Aramis smiled awkwardly as an odd feeling started to creep over him. He scraped his fork across the plate, his arm moving sluggishly. He paused and blinked, the food and table settings beginning to blur as a wave of lightheadedness swept over him. He set the fork down and leaned back in his chair, giving himself a small shake in an effort to dispel whatever this was.

Elaine was smirking. "I know you're a musketeer," she said. "And what you're here for."

Alarm zinged through him. _Merde_. He tried to push to his feet, but his body suddenly felt like lead and he slumped heavily against the back of the chair. His eyelids fluttered languidly as he struggled to stay awake.

Elaine stood up and made a beckoning gesture. A moment later, Aramis was being hauled out of the chair and dragged from the room by two men. His vision wavered so much he couldn't distinguish their faces.

He stumbled along, knowing in the back of his mind that he needed to fight, but there was a disconnect between his brain and body. He was manhandled out a side door and shoved into a waiting carriage where he slumped bonelessly in one corner. Elaine climbed in and sat across from him.

A moment later, the carriage lurched and they were moving. Aramis tried to speak, tried to ask where they were going, but his tongue was as numb as the rest of him. Elaine regarded him silently, poised like a stone-cold viper whose appetite was satiated for the moment and who now kept its prey paralyzed for later.

The carriage rumbled along, its swaying motion almost enough to lull Aramis into unconsciousness, save for the periodic bump and jolt over a pothole that helped keep him awake. Not that it did him much good. He was utterly helpless.

Then they came to a halt. Aramis heard the driver hop down and come around to open the door.

"It's a shame," Elaine finally spoke. "I imagine I would have enjoyed your company for a bit longer. But best not to take chances."

Her goon reached in and dragged Aramis out, his useless legs tripping on the step down. A second man moved in to grab his other arm in a bruising grip that kept him upright, and Aramis saw they'd stopped on a bridge over the Seine.

His sluggish brain caught up with their intent just as he was pushed backward against the edge of the stone wall. He thought he heard someone shout, but then he was flipping over the side and plunging into the dark river below.

The icy shock did nothing to wake up his brain or reflexes, and he immediately began to sink like a stone. Water pushed against his mouth and nose; he could neither hold his breath nor swallow, but he could feel the opposing pressures exerting themselves on his lungs, which began to burn as they were starved for air.

Then there was a disturbance in the water and something knocked against him. A broad arm snaked around his waist and yanked upward. The force from that pushed the oxygen from his lungs in a flurry of bubbles that flitted upward along with him. Water took its place, rushing down his throat. But then his head broke the surface and he gave a weak cough and sputter.

That bruising arm was still around his waist and hauling him toward the shore. Then he was being bodily dragged again until finally he was laid on the freezing, muddy bank and Porthos was bending over him.

"Aramis? Aramis!" Porthos patted his cheek so urgently that his head lolled to the side. He managed a moan but was still unable to speak.

Porthos cursed and gently tilted Aramis's head back so his cheek wasn't pressed into the mud.

Harried footsteps arrived, and then d'Artagnan's and Athos's faces joined Porthos's, along with a torch in a dizzying chandelier of lights and shadows above Aramis's head.

"Somethin's wrong wit' him," Porthos said.

"Aramis?" Athos called.

Aramis tried to speak, but all he got was breath whistling past his lips and he wanted to scream in frustration.

"Look at his eyes," d'Artagnan said. "They're not normal."

Athos moved the torch closer and Aramis tried to flinch away, but once again nothing happened.

"Maybe he's concussed," d'Artagnan went on.

"No," Athos responded. "Both pupils are dilated. I'd say he's been drugged."

Oh good, he wouldn't have to listen to them play the guessing game.

"He wasn't tryin' to swim at all," Porthos added.

"We need to get him back to the garrison quickly," Athos said.

Porthos slipped his arms underneath Aramis's shoulders and knees and hefted him up. The movement made his head swim, and he finally slipped away on the current of oblivion.

When he woke, everything was blessedly still, which was good because he immediately became aware of a beastly headache pounding behind his eyes. He moaned and shifted onto his side, feeling like he was going to throw up.

Hands grabbed his shoulders to halt his movement.

"Get the stuff," Porthos said urgently.

"I know," d'Artagnan replied.

One of them was going to regret hovering so close…

"Aramis?" d'Artagnan prompted. "Here, drink this."

The rim of a cup touched his lips and he clamped his mouth shut, shaking his head. That would definitely finish him off.

"Doctor Lemay expected you'd wake up sick," d'Artagnan went on, keeping his voice soft. "This tonic he left will help, I promise."

Rationally, he was inclined to trust the good doctor's prescription, but his body was violently resisting. Yet Aramis managed to take a careful breath through his nose and then opened his mouth, letting d'Artagnan dribble some of the tonic in. His stomach lurched unpleasantly as he swallowed once, then again, getting down as much as he could before he sagged back against a soft bed and just lay still for a while.

After the tonic did start to settle, he risked opening his eyes.

Seated next to the bed, Porthos straightened abruptly. "Yer still awake."

Aramis gave a very small nod. "What happened?" he croaked.

Athos moved into his field of vision at the foot of the bed. "We were watching the house when we saw Madame Velois and you leaving, so we followed. We thought she might have been taking you to her partners. We had no idea she planned to dump you in the Seine."

"She drugged the food," he rasped. "Or maybe the wine. I'm not sure." Maybe both, just to be thorough. He closed his eyes in self-recrimination. "I don't know how she discovered my true intentions. And now we have no way of finding her partners."

"We'll see about that," Athos replied. "Attempted murder of a King's Musketeer is a very serious charge. She might be persuaded to cooperate for leniency."

Aramis's head spiked with pain and he moaned. "I feel like she ran me over with that carriage too."

"Can you get more of that tonic down?" d'Artagnan asked. "The more the better. Lemay said it'll take a few days for the drugs to leave your body."

Aramis opened his eyes and nodded carefully. Porthos slipped a hand under his head to lift it while d'Artagnan helped him drink.

"Next time one of you can charm the murderous seductress," he muttered.

His friends smirked as he drifted off in their care.


	23. Exhaustion

No 23. Exhaustion — Athos

Athos pinched the bridge of his nose as the ink on the parchment began to bleed together. The candle was running low again, as it did every night. The duties of being captain were exhausting—the endless reports, the supply orders, the meetings with other generals to plan battles and strategize…the letters home to the families of fallen soldiers. Not to mention Athos was out on those same battlefields fighting side by side with his men.

The tent flap rustled as Aramis came in.

"What is it?" Athos asked tiredly. He was far too exhausted to deal with anything else right now.

"It's late."

Athos shot him a dry look. "I hadn't noticed."

"You haven't noticed for the past five days," Aramis replied. "You need to rest."

Athos waved him off. "I rest when I can." Which was few and far between, yes, but that was his burden as captain.

Aramis came closer, expression softening. "You're no good to the men if you run yourself into the ground. They look to you for leadership. What message will it send if you trip and land face first in the mud in the next battle charge?"

Athos rolled his eyes at Aramis's flair for the dramatic. Still, he couldn't deny there was wisdom in what he said. A weary soldier was no good in the field.

"Alright," he relented, rising stiffly from his desk. Even his meager cot looked inviting with how tired he was. He felt Aramis watching him as he lay down. "Are you going to tuck me in?" he said wryly.

"More like stand watch to make sure you don't get up again before dawn," Aramis replied glibly.

Athos snorted. "Surely you have better things to do," he mumbled, but then was out before he could hear the response.

He woke to the sounds of the bustling camp and daylight suffusing through the porous canvas of his tent walls. He threw an arm over his eyes, wanting to stay where he was and not move, but duty called. So he dragged himself from bed and stretched, then furrowed his brow when he noticed Aramis sitting at his desk.

"What are you doing?"

"Finishing your reports."

Athos rubbed at his face and walked over. His eyes widened in surprise to find them all filled out and stacked properly. "What about your own sleep?"

Aramis shrugged and stood up. "I've been getting more than you anyway."

Athos slowly sank into the seat he'd vacated, frowning. "But…haven't you been in the med tent every night…?" He turned and blinked dumbly at the empty space where Aramis had been standing. Whipping his gaze around, he found himself completely alone.

The tent flap opened and Athos snapped his head that direction. D'Artagnan pulled up short at the expression that must have been on his face.

"Uh, this a bad time?"

Athos faltered. He was feeling foggy all of a sudden. "No," he said. "It's fine." He cast his gaze around the tent again in confusion.

"I took care of morning muster," d'Artagnan said, coming the rest of the way in to stand on the other side of Athos's desk. His eyes scanned the papers, and his expression shifted to one of sadness. "Writing to Aramis again?"

"What?" Athos looked down and saw the letter sitting in the middle of the desk, half written, the parchment bunched and crinkled on one end like…like Athos had fallen asleep on top of it.

The realization hit him like a punch to the gut. Aramis wasn't here. He'd left the Musketeers and gone to Douai. And when they'd gone to retrieve him, to tell him they were going to war…he hadn't come back with them.

Athos had understood his decision at the time, had not begrudged him for it. But for some reason, here, right now, his heart shattered anew under the reminder.

"Are you okay?" d'Artagnan asked in concern.

Athos slowly nodded and pushed away from his desk. "I think I've been spending too many late nights burning the midnight oil," he admitted.

D'Artagnan nodded understandingly. "We're due to engage the Spanish in three days. Maybe you should get some rest before then."

"Maybe I should," Athos agreed. As Aramis—or his specter—had said, he'd be no use on the battlefield like this.

"Want me to take care of those?" d'Artagnan asked, nodding to the stack of reports.

"Yes. Thank you." Athos handed them over and watched d'Artagnan leave. Then he shuffled back toward his cot, which he found had not been slept in, and lay down.

He still didn't believe in God, but he sent a silent prayer of thanks to Aramis, who managed to look after him even from afar.

And Athos missed him dearly for it.


	24. Blindfolded

No 24. Blindfolded — Aramis

Aramis stumbled with every step over uneven ground, unable to see anything with the blindfold tied securely around his head. With his hands bound behind his back, his balance was even more precarious, not that his captors took notice. Bruising grips on both his arms kept him upright every time he tripped, hauling him along at an unrelenting pace.

His boot snagged against a rut, nearly twisting his ankle, and he let out a muffled grunt through the band of cloth stuffed between his teeth and also knotted tightly at the back of his head, the edges cutting into his cheeks. His captors yanked him along. Aramis fumbled to keep his feet lest he end up dragged across the ground.

Finally they drew to a stop and Aramis tried to orient himself. He smelled damp earth and heard a hint of rushing water, but it was distant. Either that or they'd stopped up his ears somehow.

"Where's my brother?" someone shouted at Aramis's right shoulder, making him flinch. His ears were fine, then.

There was no response, and Aramis couldn't see what was happening, but he felt the man beside him straighten. Then the barrel of a gun was pressed to the back of his head and he was pushed forward.

"Walk straight," the man told him, then added with a sneer, "You wouldn't want to fall."

Aramis didn't know what that meant, but he received another shove and staggered forward. His foot landed not on earth but a wooden plank, and the surface swung slightly in response. The rushing water also sounded suddenly closer.

Aramis's heart dropped into his stomach. Aware of the gun behind him, he took a tentative step further. The plank beneath him continued to sway under his weight, giving him vertigo with his eyes blindfolded and unable to orient himself. He took another careful step and almost lost his balance, pitching sideways against what felt like a lattice rope railing. But with his hands tied behind his back, he couldn't grip it for balance.

"Aramis!" d'Artagnan's worried voice carried over the chasm. He must be on the other side of this bridge, which meant all Aramis had to do was cross it and he'd be free.

"Keep moving," his captor growled.

Aramis didn't like this at all but he didn't like the prospect of staying behind with these ruffians and getting shot either.

He inched his foot forward cautiously, opting for an awkward shuffle rather than trying to walk. There didn't appear to be any gaps between the wood, which was fortunate, otherwise he'd never make it across. His heart hammered against his rib cage and rushing blood roared in his ears like the rapids he could imagine lay far below.

The wooden planks reverberated beneath his feet and he froze. Someone else was walking across the bridge. One of his brothers coming to meet him?

"Don't try anything, Dupuy," Athos yelled.

The steps came closer, much steadier than Aramis's were. But whoever it was didn't call out to him, and Aramis tensed.

"Musketeer scum," someone spat as he passed.

Aramis held himself rigidly still, waiting. The person continued past him. Aramis sucked in a shaky breath through his nose and resumed his own careful way across the bridge. How far had he gotten? Was he halfway yet? Now that the hostages had been exchanged, would someone come help him for God's sake?

Several voices shouted his name then in terror and warning, but Aramis had no way of knowing what it was for or even reacting. A musket shot cracked the air and searing fire scored across his arm. The impact, compounded with his inability to see or balance himself, sent him spiraling downward, and for a split second Aramis thought he was going to flip over the side of the bridge and plummet to his death.

But he landed on the wooden planks, and the bridge swung wildly as a result. Aramis was flung toward the edge of the rope railing, which caught him, and again he expected the flimsy bridge to flip and throw him over. But it didn't.

More gunfire erupted around him. Aramis was helpless to do anything but lie as still as possible and hope he didn't get hit again, or that someone didn't decide to cut the rope lines before he'd gotten off this blasted bridge.

The wooden planks juddered again, and Aramis tensed as pounding footsteps approached.

"Aramis!" D'Artagnan dropped down beside him and reached behind his head to undo the blindfold.

The sudden visual of his predicament made Aramis's stomach lurch into his throat as he got a sprawling view of the river a hundred feet below through the gaps in the rope lattice.

D'Artagnan gripped his shoulders and rolled him away from the edge, toward the middle of the bridge. It continued to sway but was more level now. D'Artagnan took a moment to draw his pistol and shoot at the men still firing at them from the other side. Thankfully, though, now that most of the first rounds had been spent, they started to flee.

D'Artagnan leaned over Aramis again and traded his pistol for his dagger to cut through the ropes binding his wrists. With his hands finally free, Aramis jerked his arms up to yank the gag out of his mouth.

"You all right?" d'Artagnan asked worriedly.

Aramis gave a shaky nod, though in truth he wasn't sure. He wanted to get off this damn bridge but wasn't feeling steady enough to get up yet. The shooting had stopped, though, and there was no reason to stay sitting out over a gully.

Clinging to the rope railing, Aramis heaved himself up, cringing when the bridge jostled. D'Artagnan grabbed his arm to help steady him, his expression full of understanding, and together they made their way back to solid ground where Athos and Porthos were waiting anxiously.

"You all right?" Porthos asked, repeating d'Artagnan's earlier question.

Aramis nodded, only for a spike of searing pain to remind him a bullet had grazed him. He finally glanced behind him at the other side of the canyon. "They got away."

"We'll go after them later," Athos said, taking his elbow and angling his arm so he could get a look at the tear in his sleeve that was tinged with blood.

"An' maybe go round another way," Porthos added.

Aramis flashed him a grateful smile. Yes, no more unsteady bridges for a while, blindfolded or not.


	25. Disorientation

No 25. Disorientation | Blurred Vision | Ringing Ears — Porthos

Porthos charged across the battlefield, brandishing his schiavona against the enemy soldiers as musket and cannon fire cracked the air all around like gods of thunder. It was chaotic, a bloodied frenzy of fervent men whose uniforms were splashed with mud and blood, making it difficult to know who was a friendly and who was an enemy. Porthos cut down anyone who came directly at him.

The shrill whistling of an airborne cannon ball filled the air, growing louder and harsher until suddenly it struck the ground too close to where Porthos was fighting. A concussive whomp of force, smoke, and dirt exploded outward, slamming into Porthos and flinging him to the ground so hard the impact radiated through every single bone. Rock and grit rained down on top of him as he lay there, stunned.

The world narrowed to nothing, and for a moment it seemed as though the battle had suddenly stopped, because Porthos could no longer hear it happening. His ears were filled with a high-pitched ringing.

He rolled onto his side and saw blurred shapes throwing themselves at each other. Squeezing his eyes shut, he gave himself a shake trying to clear his vision, but it was no sharper when he opened them again. He saw the glint of steel reflecting sunlight as they arced like lightning but couldn't hear their clang.

The battle was clearly still raging, so he climbed to his knees, then his feet. He flexed his hands, only to realize he no longer had his sword. Porthos scanned the ground for it, but everything swirled together in clumps of brown, green, and red. He took another lumbering step and tripped, which saved him as he felt a small puff of air as a sword went slicing through where his head had just been. He reflexively threw a hand up to catch his assailant's sword arm before he could swing again and torqued it back until he felt the crack reverberate beneath his fingers. His opponent went rigid where he stood. Porthos head butted him, which was a mistake because that made pain and stars explode through his own head and they both went down.

Porthos clamped a hand over one of his ears. They were still ringing and he still couldn't hear anything going on around him. He would have been panicking if he wasn't still a tad disoriented and everything had a wobbly quality to it.

He crawled across the ground in search of that weapon his recent attacker had, but it and the man were nowhere to be found. This was bad, Porthos knew that, knew he was vulnerable and he had to move.

He lurched upright again and tried to figure out which way to go. Both ends of the field were shooting cannons at each other, and the flags for either side were long knocked down, giving him no way to know which army was which.

A hand grabbed his shoulder and he whirled with a punch, but the movement upended his balance and his swing swished through air. The offending hand moved to grip his elbow, preventing him from pitching face first onto the ground. Porthos blinked as Aramis's grime-covered features solidified. Aramis's mouth was moving, but Porthos couldn't hear what he was saying. He just continued to blink dumbly at his friend as battle raged around them.

Aramis seemed to decide to give up and simply tightened his grip on Porthos's arm and started dragging him off the field. Porthos stumbled along, the impact vibrations of cannons reverberating through his feet and making him twist and turn trying to see where they were striking. Spikes of pain would drive through his eardrums, though he couldn't pinpoint a source of sound loud enough to pierce the incessant ringing. Aramis kept up his stern pace, though, and finally they were past the battle lines and Aramis was sitting Porthos down against a tree, then running his hands over him with a medic's proficiency. Aramis's mouth moved again.

"What?" Porthos shouted, his voice strangely distorted in his own ears.

Aramis held up a finger, then stood and hurried away for a few moments. Porthos was still too dizzy to bother going after him. Besides, Aramis returned shortly with a canteen of water that he pushed into Porthos's hands. Porthos drank greedily. When he was done, Aramis took the canteen back and poured some water onto a rag and then began to wipe the grime from Porthos's face. At that level of fussing, he finally shoved the marksman off.

Aramis skewered him with a glower and said something Porthos couldn't hear, though he imagined it was some chastisement. Aramis dabbed at his cheek roughly and Porthos jerked away, but then Aramis held up the rag with some blood and raised his eyebrows pointedly.

Oh. Porthos figured Aramis was trying to see if he was hurt anywhere underneath the blood and grime. He made a disgruntled gesture to proceed. He didn't feel badly injured…but he couldn't hear, and every time he moved too quickly his vision tilted and his head swam. That wasn't good.

He submitted to a more thorough examination, belatedly remembering the rest of the battle, but when he twisted to look around the edge of the tree he was sitting against, he noticed the field had quieted for real this time. He couldn't tell who was the victor based on the men slowly slogging through the carnage.

Aramis tapped his shoulder, drawing his attention back, and held up a finger. Porthos thought it meant for him to wait again, but then Aramis shifted it to the left. Right, Porthos had done that before. He followed Aramis's finger left, then the opposite way, then up and down. Afterward, Aramis put his hands on his hips and visibly huffed.

"What's wrong?" Porthos tried to ask.

Aramis shook his head and reached out to pat Porthos's shoulder, which Porthos took to mean it wasn't anything terribly serious.

"'M I gonna get my hearin' back?" he asked.

Aramis's mouth turned down at that and he shrugged. Porthos didn't like that answer.

Aramis waved his hand to get Porthos's attention again and slowly mouthed, "Don't worry."

Porthos snorted. How could he not? But then, he was used to soldiering, so he knew about men who'd been too close to cannons and temporarily lost their hearing as a result.

Aramis stood and held out a hand to help Porthos up. He stumbled again, his head still ringing, and Aramis slung one arm over his shoulder as he helped Porthos to the infantry tents and laid him down on a bedroll. Then he gave Porthos one more assuring pat on the shoulder before leaving, probably to help with other wounded.

Porthos lay there, staring at the canvas ceiling. He was afraid to close his eyes, afraid of being completely senseless, even in the safety of their own camp.

But exhaustion had other ideas, and he felt his eyelids growing heavy until finally even the ringing in his ears faded out.

.o.0.o.

"This wine is terrible."

"I notice it's not stopping you from drinking it."

Silence. Or…not quite silence. Muffled sounds to go with faint voices.

"Are you going to wake him again?"

"No. He was lucid the last two times, and his pupils are better."

A beat of silence.

"What about his hearing?"

There was no response to that.

"'M tryin' to sleep here," Porthos grunted.

"Porthos?" Aramis exclaimed.

With a sigh, he prized his eyelids open and found his friend looming over him, expression taut with hopefulness.

"Can you hear me?"

"Yeah. Well, sorta." Porthos pushed himself up onto his elbows and saw Athos sitting on a small stool a few feet away, bottle of wine in hand. "Yer not very loud, but yeah, I can hear ya."

Aramis broke into a relieved smile. "That's good."

Porthos pulled his legs in so he could sit upright, brow furrowing as he focused on listening. "Seems quiet outside. Is it?"

Athos shook his head.

Aramis put a hand on his shoulder. "But the fact that you've recovered some hearing already bodes well. Just give it time."

Porthos's mouth thinned. He hated that. "We win?" he asked, wondering whether time was something he even had.

Athos nodded and held out his wine bottle. Despite overhearing the swordsman's assessment of the drink, Porthos accepted it and knocked back a swig. He nearly choked on the sour juice.

"That's rank," he coughed, handing it back.

Athos shrugged in a "what-can-you-do" manner and took another drag himself, face scrunching up as he did so.

Now that Porthos's vision was also clear, he took a moment to survey his friends, noticing they appeared to have come out of the battle unscathed. He was thankful for that, at least. And that he hadn't been blown to smithereens by that cannon ball. He rubbed at one ear, hating the uncomfortable feeling of it being full of water. The ringing was still there, too, though less loud and somewhat more buzzy, like there were bees flying around his head.

That was going to get irritating fast.

But Aramis and Athos were talking again, not about anything important, just filling the silence with idle prattle that helped drown out the noise in Porthos's head. He focused on their voices instead, extremely grateful to have them.


	26. Migraine

No 26. Migraine — Aramis

Aramis pressed his face into the mattress where he was curled up, whimpering at the hot poker piercing his skull. His stomach rolled, and he sucked in a sharp breath in a desperate bid to keep it from rebelling. The last thing he needed was dry heaves making the pounding in his head even worse.

As if it could get worse. This was his own personal Hell on Earth.

Maybe his penance. For all he'd done wrong since the day he'd left the Musketeers for Douai and then forsook his vow in order to return. He'd done wrong abandoning his brothers, in Porthos's eyes, and he'd done wrong coming back with them.

Another pitiful sound escaped past his lips, but there was no one to hear it.

He startled badly when a cold wet cloth was pressed against the back of his neck.

"Shh," Constance whispered. "It's just me."

He prized his eyelids open a fraction and squinted at her. When had she come in? How long had she been there?

Her eyes were warm and full of concern—something Aramis had been sorely missing from another of his dearest friends. It made his heart ache.

"How long?" she asked softly.

He turned his face back into the mattress. "Midday." He wasn't sure he wanted to know what time it was now. The curtains of his window had been drawn closed to keep out the offending light.

There was the sound of sloshing water, and a moment later another cool cloth was held to his temple. Constance's hands gently cupped his face and turned it upward, and she shifted the cloth to rest along his forehead. He moaned at the brief balm it provided against the raging torrent.

"Should I get the others?" Constance asked, keeping her voice low.

"No!" His eyes shot open, only to immediately close again as stars sparked across them. "No."

Constance was quiet for a long moment. "Can I get you anything?"

He gave a minute head shake. There was nothing to do in these circumstances except wait for sleep to finally sweep him off to oblivion and pray that when he woke the next morning, his head wouldn't feel like someone was setting off gunpowder inside it.

He expected Constance to take her leave then, and part of him desperately wanted to ask her to stay, but he didn't feel he had the right.

She didn't leave, though. The mattress dipped as she sat next to him, and cool fingers stroked the curls away from his face. She checked both cloths and removed the one at his neck in order to re-wet it.

Aramis basked in the comforting touches, overwhelming gratitude making his eyes prick with tears. He kept them squeezed shut so Constance wouldn't see.

"I'm sorry things aren't the same," she said quietly.

Aramis's throat constricted. "It's not for any of them either," he replied hoarsely.

"They do still love you, you know."

Maybe, but as she'd said, it wasn't the same.

"Thank you, Constance," he whispered, hating the way his voice broke.

She leaned down and pressed a tender kiss to his brow. "I love you too."

A traitorous tear slipped free, but it seeped directly into the mattress, hidden from view. And he could always claim the pain was just too great, taking him to his breaking point.

But he didn't have to explain himself. Not to Constance.

She didn't say anything more, just sat with him in the dark room, stroking his hair until he was finally, blessedly, lulled into sleep, safe from his demons both mental and physical.


	27. Extreme Weather

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Based on the craziness in my state of California back in August and September. Firenado is a real thing, btw.

No 27. Extreme Weather — Athos, Aramis, Porthos, d'Artagnan

"Everyone out, now!" Athos bellowed, coughing as a gust of wind blew cloying smoke into his mouth and nose. He threw an arm up to cover his face, though it did little good against the noxious brume blanketing the village ahead of the raging wildfire headed directly for them. He didn't even have time to stop and fashion his scarf over his mouth and nose with how quickly it was moving.

A recent dry spell and excessive heat wave had parched the French countryside, leaving it brittle and primed for disaster when freak thunderstorms then struck. Multiple small fires had started from lightning strikes, which had then merged into a massive inferno scourging its way through France. The Musketeers had been dispatched to help with evacuations, but there were so many villages under threat that the regiment had to split up to cover them all.

"Hurry!" d'Artagnan yelled at a couple who were frantically throwing possessions into baskets.

Athos stormed over and kicked the baskets aside. "Leave it!" he barked.

The flames were cresting the knoll and would be upon them in minutes. There was no time left.

Across the way, a family was struggling with several small children. Aramis darted over and scooped the smallest child up, carrying them over to a wagon where Porthos was helping the old, young, and infirm who couldn't run climb into the back.

The fire roared like an invading army and the forceful gales howled in chorus, giving speed to the blaze. Athos watched a column of flames leap through the air and land on a thatched roof at the edge of the village. It went up in a whoosh. People screamed.

"Go, now!" Aramis shouted at the wagon driver.

The man snapped the reins, urging the two mules yoked to the cart to move.

"Is that everyone?" Porthos asked urgently.

Athos scanned the village. Doors hung open and belongings lay scattered about, but he didn't see any movement within the small homes. "Let's go," he declared.

The four of them turned to rush toward where they'd left their horses when they first arrived. The animals were fidgeting in place, nostrils flaring and eyes wide. Athos untethered the reins and flipped them over his steed's neck, then stuck his foot in the stirrup to mount up.

A belch of flames jumping the road behind them sent sweltering heat buffeting them, and the horses all shrieked and reared. Athos lost his footing and fell backward. His horse almost trampled him bolting away. D'Artagnan, who'd already been in the process of swinging up into the saddle, was thrown to the ground hard. Aramis and Porthos yelled, the reins yanked from their grips as all four animals fled through the thickening smoke.

Athos scrambled to his feet and over to d'Artagnan, who was clutching his left wrist. There was no time to see if he was all right, though. Athos grabbed his collar and hauled him to his feet.

"Run!" he yelled.

They staggered after their horses, away from the flames hot on their heels. The smoke was so thick though that they could barely see several feet in front of them, which slowed their pace as they stumbled over rocks and ruts in the ground. Athos coughed raggedly, grit stinging his eyes and making them water. A fulvous orange hue up ahead had them skidding to a stop and changing direction. Porthos tripped and Aramis darted back to help him up.

Athos tried to see his way through the fumes, but everything was awash with spewing black and orange and he'd lost track of their position relative to the encroaching flames. He pulled up short, suddenly terrified he was going to inadvertently lead his brothers straight into the fire.

"Athos!" d'Artagnan shouted, yanking on his arm.

He whipped his gaze around, having absolutely no idea which way to turn.

"What is it?" Aramis exclaimed.

Athos shook his head. He didn't…

A raging howl stirred up somewhere to their right. The smoke cleared minutely…but only because it was being sucked up into a gyrating cyclone. Athos's eyes widened as flames were sucked up too, resulting in a massive tornado of wind and fire. And it was heading right for them.

There was only one way to go now. The four of them bolted into a desperate run the opposite direction. The firenado shrieked like a demon out of Hell, and though Athos didn't believe in God, he wondered if this was Judgement Day. His lungs burned and his vision turned spotty as his body strained to keep up with the exertion on so little oxygen.

"Over here!" Aramis suddenly shouted.

Athos stumbled, trying to see where he went. D'Artagnan grabbed his arm and pulled him along. There was a large pond to their left, and Aramis went splashing into it.

"Come on!" he yelled, gesturing urgently for them to follow.

They barreled into the water after him, the cool liquid a stark relief as it soaked through Athos's leathers down to his sweating skin. The four of them waded out to the center of the pond where it went up to their chests. The fire tornado roared past along the shore and kept going, but in its wake came the main blaze, which devoured everything in its path instantly.

Athos shared a look with the others. It seemed they wouldn't be going anywhere.

Aramis abruptly dunked his head under the water's surface, then came back up and pushed his wet hair back, splattering the rest of them with water droplets. Athos found it an appealing idea and did the same. So did Porthos and d'Artagnan. But after several minutes standing in the water, it went from refreshing to shivering. Athos closed his eyes in growing misery. At least they were alive, though.

Aramis sloshed closer to d'Artagnan and picked up his wrist to examine it. "Not broken," he declared, then turned his head away as he was wracked with a series of deep, hacking coughs. The sound made Athos's own throat itch with the urge.

Porthos put a hand on Aramis's back until he was through. Aramis gave a wordless nod, then scooped up a handful of water to drink.

"I hope the horses escaped," d'Artagnan said.

"They're certainly faster than us," Porthos grumbled.

Aramis cleared his throat. "Keep your wrist in the water," he told d'Artagnan. "Should help keep the swelling down." He turned away as he was gripped with another round of coughing.

"You should stop talking," Athos said dryly.

Aramis shot him a glower between coughs, then sagged when the attack finally stopped. With a sigh, he sank down and leaned backward to float on the water's surface. Porthos looked worried as he reached out a hand to support him, even though the pond was shallow enough that none of them were at risk of drowning.

D'Artagnan pursed his mouth as he gazed at the flames spitting and crackling along the shore on three sides. "I guess we're stuck here," he said.

Athos hummed in agreement. He was on the verge of a coughing fit himself and didn't want to trigger it by talking.

The fire burned on. Its smoke had completely filled the sky and blotted out the sun so that they couldn't mark the passage of time. Athos hoped they wouldn't still be trapped out here at night. He was already shivering from being immersed in the cold water this long. So were the others.

Aramis eventually drifted closer to the shoreline where he could sit down without submerging his head. The rest of them slowly followed. It was perhaps a little too close for comfort to the fire but it was still safe. The four of them sat huddled shoulder to shoulder, trying to share body heat that had been leeched out of them. Ironic, given the blistering heat still wafting out toward them from the inferno.

At long last, the fire moved on, leaving scorched, blackened ruins with smoldering embers behind. The musketeers stiffly got to their feet and waded out of the pond. Exhaustion had long since set in after that mad dash for their lives, but they couldn't exactly lie down here and rest.

So they picked their way over charred earth, not entirely certain where they were going but heading there anyway. They eventually found themselves back at the village they'd evacuated—what was left of it, anyway, which was little more than a few scorched wooden beams sticking up out of the ground with no walls or roofs to support. Everything had been decimated.

The sounds of hoof beats on the road drew their attention to a group of riders fast approaching. Musketeers.

"Athos!" Pierre exclaimed. "Thank God. We found your horses and were worried you hadn't made it out." His brow furrowed with concern as he took in their appearance. "What happened?"

Athos glanced at his brothers before answering. "It's a long story." His voice was hoarse from smoke inhalation.

"You can tell it later," Pierre said sympathetically.

The four of them shuffled forward wearily to climb up behind another mounted musketeer. Athos had to keep himself from slumping against Pierre's back in exhaustion. At least they were safe and rescued now, and Athos could let his guard down, knowing his fellow musketeers had them well in hand.


	28. Hunting Season

No 28. Hunting Season | Accidents — d'Artagnan

D'Artagnan was up with the dawn—a side effect of growing up on a farm where not an hour of daylight was wasted. But there were no crops to tend out here in the woods and his three companions seemed more than happy to take their time rousing from their bedrolls, leaving d'Artagnan to just sit and enjoy the tranquility.

Not that he wasn't eager to get back to Paris and a certain cloth merchant's wife. So after a little while, he decided to get up and start packing up camp so they'd be ready to go—and perhaps all his rattling around would wake his friends so they could get going all the more sooner.

Porthos made a snuffling sound and rolled over. Athos seemed dead to the world after his nightly bottle of wine. And Aramis slept with his hat over his face so if he was awake, he was playing possum, possibly so d'Artagnan would be stuck doing all the work.

With all their gear packed, d'Artagnan stood in the midst of camp with his hands on his hips glaring at his companions. Still no one stirred. Huffing irritably, he grabbed all their canteens, not bothering to be quiet about them clanking together, and strode off to the nearby stream to fill them.

The woods were still peaceful around him, and d'Artagnan tried to internalize some of that peace. There were also some pretty wildflowers growing by the stream that he thought Constance would like, if they could survive the five-hour journey between here and Paris. If his friends were going to continue being stubborn about getting up, maybe he'd take the time to pick and bind some.

A twig snapped somewhere in the distance and the birds suddenly went quiet. D'Artagnan paused, crouched by the stream, and scanned the forest. He didn't see anything. After a few moments, he went back to filling the canteens.

The click and twang of a crossbow sounded through the air, and a split second later a bolt slammed into d'Artagnan's side. He cried out in shock and pain and fell backward, the shaft protruding between his hands as he clutched at the offending projectile. He thought he heard panicked shouts in the distance, and then someone was yelling his name.

"D'Artagnan!" Aramis skidded to his knees beside him on the ground.

D'Artagnan couldn't help the low whimper in the back of his throat as he writhed where he lay and Aramis planted his hands on his hip and shoulder and tried to get him to lay flat.

"No, please! It was an accident!" someone bleated.

"You shot a musketeer," Athos's cold voice responded.

"I thought he was a deer," a younger voice pleaded. "I'm sorry!"

D'Artagnan turned his head toward the source of the argument and saw Athos and Porthos holding their swords on two men dressed in plain cloth. A father and son, it looked like. Hunting in the woods. D'Artagnan's father had taken him out a few times when he was younger.

A lightning bolt of pain through his abdomen brought his attention back to himself and he screamed as Aramis wrapped a hand around the shaft.

"Porthos! My med kit!" the marksman yelled.

"Agh, get it out," d'Artagnan cried.

"In a minute," Aramis replied. "Just lie still and breathe."

It hurt to breathe, d'Artagnan wanted to snap, but he didn't have the breath for it. He heard Athos tell the hunters to get out of here, and then he was kneeling just behind Aramis and asking what he needed.

"See if d'Artagnan finished filling those canteens," Aramis said.

Porthos came hurrying back with the med kit and quickly handed it over.

"Alright," Aramis said. "I need to pull the bolt out. Athos, be ready with the water to flush the wound. Porthos, if it bleeds too much, be ready to apply pressure when Athos's finished. Got it?"

D'Artagnan didn't hear or see their responses, and even though he wanted the bolt out, his instincts kicked in and started screaming for them to wait. That never made it to his voice, though, and a moment later, Aramis yanked the bolt out with a tearing squelch that ripped another scream from d'Artagnan's throat.

Aramis then tugged his shirt up hastily so Athos could pour water directly over the wound. D'Artagnan shuddered under the sensation, though he knew alcohol would have hurt ten times worse.

"Alright," Aramis said again. "It's not bleeding too badly. I don't think it went very deep and punctured anything internally. I'll clean it with spirits and then sew it closed."

So much for escaping the alcohol…and just when the fire in his side was beginning to recede. D'Artagnan lolled his head against the grass and blinked through watery vision at the wildflowers crushed under splatters of his blood. He couldn't give them to Constance now.

Aramis uncapped a small flask from his med kit and poured some of its contents over the wound. The fire flared anew with white-hot intensity, and d'Artagnan arched his back and screamed before he fell into darkness.

.o.0.o.

He woke to the tranquil crackle of a fire and birdsong in the trees. It was almost soothing, until the throbbing in his side made itself known. Then he moaned and tossed his head, futilely trying to escape it.

A hand settled on his shoulder. "Easy, d'Artagnan," Athos said.

He prized his eyelids open and found himself cushioned on the ground on top of several bedrolls and a blanket draped over his legs up to his chest. Athos was seated on a log next to him.

"How are you feeling?"

"Like I got shot in the gut," he grunted, brow furrowing as he struggled through a mire of muddled memory. "It was an accident?"

"So the shooters said," Athos said darkly, then added, "I let them go."

D'Artagnan vaguely remembered that. "I don't think they were trying to kill me."

"That boy needs to learn to look before he shoots."

"Accidents happen," d'Artagnan mumbled tiredly. "But yes, hopefully he learns from this." He frowned and lifted his head to look around. "Where're Porthos and Aramis?"

"They've gone to get a cart from the closest village. Aramis would prefer you convalesce there in a proper bed, not out in the woods."

D'Artagnan dropped his head back against the bedroll with a groan. He'd been looking forward to seeing Constance and now he'd have to wait even longer. He huffed at the additional irony that just this morning he'd been begrudging the others for lounging about and now he was the one who'd be doing that for who knew how long.

He shifted his hand and gingerly probed at his bandaged stomach.

"I wouldn't touch it if I were you," Athos warned. "Aramis has a way of knowing these things."

D'Artagnan rolled his eyes but stopped. Athos reached for a canteen and held it out for him to take, which he did gratefully. He was parched. "I can't believe I got mistaken for a deer," he grumbled. That was going to be embarrassing to explain to the captain when they got back.

"Your skills at camouflage are to be commended," Athos said with dry droll.

D'Artagnan huffed, then grimaced.

Athos patted his shoulder. "Get some rest. The wagon ride won't be pleasant later."

D'Artagnan winced at the reminder. Nothing about this morning had been pleasant. Well, not after the getting shot part. Before that, though, he remembered it had been rather nice.

He closed his eyes and listened to the sounds of the forest, still somewhat soothing despite the hidden dangers beneath its canopy. And when he heard the creak of a wagon arriving, he decided to pretend he was fast asleep so his friends would let him lie there undisturbed for a little while longer.


	29. Reluctant Bedrest

No 29. Reluctant Bedrest — Aramis

The clang of steel resounded through the gardens in rhythmic fashion as Aramis put a teenage Louis through his paces. The boy was a natural with a sword.

Took after his father that way.

Aramis rarely got to pick up a blade himself, save for these tutoring sessions with the young King and an occasional sparring session with d'Artagnan when they both had time. The positions of Captain of the Musketeers and First Minister were time consuming ones.

Aramis missed being a musketeer, but he wouldn't trade these precious moments with his son in order to go back.

"Well done, Your Majesty," he praised as Louis locked blades with his.

The boy beamed with pride and stepped back. "Again?"

"I believe you have a meeting with some of your Council members."

Louis huffed. "I'm the King; they can wait." He got into an en garde position. "Please?"

Aramis shook his head in amusement; he could never turn down an opportunity to spend more time like this with Louis, where the decorum of public office and station were all but forgotten and it was almost as though they were truly father and son.

Aramis raised his blade and lunged. Louis parried and riposted, and they began the exchange of moves once more. It was all smooth and elegant, until Louis sidestepped and Aramis twisted to swing his blade around. His back twinged a split second before it seized up in a debilitating spasm.

He gasped and stumbled, trying to keep his feet, but the pain was too immense and he ended up falling on the ground.

"Aramis!" Louis cried. "What did I do? I'm sorry!" The boy dropped down beside him and gripped his shoulder. "Someone get help!"

Aramis shook his head. "It's nothing," he gasped. "Just give me a minute."

He focused on breathing through the contorting pain, waiting for it to recede. But just when it started to and he tested moving, it flared up again with a vengeance.

A litter was brought and he was lifted onto it and carried inside, much to his chagrin. At least it wasn't far to his apartments where he was transferred to his bed.

Anne came rushing into the room. "What happened?"

"I don't know," Louis said, distraught. "I didn't think I cut him."

"You didn't," Aramis assured. "My back seized up. Probably an old injury."

"I'll be the judge of that," the royal physician declared primly as he strode in to join the growing spectacle. Aramis tried to suppress a groan.

The doctor did, in fact, confirm that his back muscles had seized up and prescribed bedrest for the next few days. Aramis tried to protest that he didn't need that long, but Anne gave him a sharp look that brooked no argument.

Aramis couldn't believe it. How many years had he been a soldier where his body lived, moved, and breathed fighting? And he certainly hadn't let his skills wane since becoming First Minister.

Anne had the servants adjust Aramis's pillows until he was sitting up comfortably, then had the room cleared so it was just her and him. She sat beside him on the edge of the mattress.

"This is so embarrassing," he muttered.

She smiled and took his hand. "You're not as young as you once were."

He sighed and rubbed his thumb over the back of her hand. More secret moments he cherished and wouldn't trade, even if it did mean he'd lost his edge as a soldier.

"Don't tell d'Artagnan," he beseeched.

Anne's lips twitched. "If he does come by the palace, I'll tell him you're busy with affairs of state."

He smiled back, and they sat like that in companionable silence for a while longer.

Until a tentative knock came at the door and Louis poked his head in. "Are you feeling all right?" he asked worriedly.

Aramis smiled. "I'm fine as long as I don't move."

"Oh." The boy hesitated. "Would chess be too strenuous?" He held up a chessboard box.

Warmth washed through Aramis and nearly banished the ache in his back. "Not at all."

Anne shared a pleased smile with him as she stood up to make room for their son.

Louis unfolded the chessboard in Aramis's lap and laid out the pieces. Once the board was set, he took both Queens and held them behind his back, then brought his closed fists back out. Aramis tapped his left. Louis opened it. Black.

Louis climbed up onto the bed and Aramis shifted his legs to make room for him, grimacing slightly as his back twinged in protest. But then they were settled and Louis made the first move while Anne moved to a settee by the window and watched.

Maybe bedrest wouldn't be so horrible after all.


	30. Wound Reveal

No 30. Wound Reveal — Athos

Aramis pushed aside the tent flap of the infirmary and sharply inhaled the fresh air as he stepped outside. Hours of tending wounds after a battle was exhausting, the scents of blood, sickness, and medicinal tonics a cloying, suffocating miasma. He'd done everything he could, though; the rest was in God's hands.

"How's Porthos?" a soft voice spoke from his left.

"He won't lose his eye," Aramis replied. That had been a harrowing wound to treat, especially with Porthos being a notoriously bad patient.

Athos nodded and pursed his mouth for a moment. He was holding himself stiffly, slightly leaning to the left. "And you've finished treating everyone else?"

"Yes. Why?"

"Then I require your assistance." Athos shifted, moving his arm away from where it'd been tucked firmly against his side. He pulled back the edge of his coat, revealing a wadded up bunch of cloth pressed against his hip and soaked with blood.

Aramis straightened abruptly and lashed a hand out to grab Athos's arm. "When did you get this?" he hissed.

"During the battle."

"And you're just telling me _now_?" Aramis dragged him into the tent and past the wounded men to the back where an available cot was.

"The others had to come first," Athos replied blandly.

"I'm the medic; I'll be the judge of that," Aramis spat and shoved Athos onto the cot. He then knelt down and ripped the sullied cloth away, exposing the grisly gash underneath. He gritted his teeth. "You could have bled out while waiting," he snapped angrily and stood to grab his supplies.

"Better me than one of the other men," Athos said quietly, but Aramis heard.

He stormed back over with his med kit and rolled it out on the cot. "So you have a death wish."

"I do not have—" Athos sucked in a sharp breath and went rigid as Aramis pressed an alcohol soaked rag against the wound. "A death wish," he finished grounding out. "I just don't think I'm more deserving than anyone else. Probably less so," he added.

Aramis wiped the cloth around the wound, effectively shutting him up for a few moments. He then picked up a flask of spirits and liberally doused the laceration, eliciting a strangled grunt from the otherwise stoic swordsman. Aramis turned away and began to thread a needle. He was too furious for words. Athos wasn't the most friendly man, but Aramis thought they'd developed a sort of bond in recent months. The two of them, along with Porthos, worked well together. And, if Aramis were honest, there was a deep loneliness that marred each of their souls, a loneliness somewhat eased when in each other's company.

But apparently that only meant something to Aramis.

He started to sew the gash, not caring that he was being rather rough about it.

Athos's jaw was visibly clenched and he was clutching the edges of the cot in a white-knuckled grip. "I thought you were the best seamstress in the regiment," he gritted out between pained breaths.

"You don't deserve the best, now do you?" Aramis retorted harshly.

Athos fell silent for a few moments while Aramis finished the stitching.

"I'm sorry if I offended you," he broached when Aramis was done. "I was only trying to make a rational decision that benefitted the regiment as a whole."

Aramis wiped his hands clean on a rag and threw it to the ground. "Do you know why I learned battlefield medicine? Because after Savoy I swore I would never be helpless while my brothers-in-arms fell all around me. But you, you'll just stand there in the corner and keep your peace while you slowly bleed out."

"I came to you when you were free—"

"Without caring whether you came too late!" Aramis hissed, mindful of waking the patients he'd already worked tirelessly to save. "You would lay that failure on my conscience."

Athos didn't say anything right away but seemed contemplative. "I'm sorry," he said more sincerely this time. "That wasn't my intention."

Aramis grabbed a roll of bandages and tersely told Athos to hold his shirt up so he could wrap his abdomen. "Never hide an injury from me again," he said in a low voice as he tied the bandage off.

Athos nodded sagely. "I won't."

Aramis eyed him for a moment, trying to judge his veracity. He then gave his own clipped nod of acceptance; he would take Athos at his word.

And just like that, all was forgiven and right between them once again.


	31. Whipped

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last one, folks. October went by so fast. But here's a nice long one to finish out the month. And thanks again to everyone who read and commented over the past 31 days!

No 31. Whipped — Aramis

"Constance!"

She stopped and turned at the sound of her name, only to tense when she realized it was Aramis. She hadn't spoken to him since that shattering revelation of walking in on him and the Queen in Emilie's tent, and she wasn't sure she wanted to talk to him now, especially out here in the market in public. Not that the palace was any safer. _Nowhere_ was safe to talk about what she'd seen, and yet she could see in his eyes as he wove through the throng to reach her that he was burdened by it. Well, good. He should be. Constance certainly was.

Aramis finally made it to her side and seemed to falter. "May I carry that for you?" he asked instead of what she was sure he'd wanted to say.

Constance glanced at the basket in her arms and hesitated, but then huffed and thrust it into his arms.

"You're angry," he surmised.

"Oh really?" she rejoined. "How can you tell?"

"I'm sorry. I never meant to put you in this position."

Constance cast a harried look around, afraid how explicitly Aramis was going to make this conversation. "Maybe you should have thought of that before…starting it!" she hissed.

"It wasn't like that," he tried to explain, an almost desperate thread to his tone that gave Constance pause.

She knew his reputation with the ladies, had seen his jaunty demeanor when it came to his liaisons. But what she'd seen in that tent with the Queen had been…softer. More like the way d'Artagnan was with her.

Constance wrenched her thoughts away from that track. What she and d'Artagnan felt for each other wasn't treason.

And yet it was wrong. She was a married woman. But the heart wanted what the heart wanted.

Constance sighed. "I would never do anything to hurt—" She broke off before she could be overheard. "To hurt my friend," she said more quietly. "Or you."

Aramis canted his head in gratitude.

"You can keep carrying that for me until I'm done here," she added with a pointed look at the basket.

Aramis's lips quirked. "Aren't there are other servants who do the shopping?"

"Sometimes we like to have a special treat, and I know where to find the best produce." She pointed across the square to a peach stand.

Aramis grinned. "I'll make a note of that."

Oh good Lord, now she was a co-conspirator.

"Hey, it's him!" someone shouted loudly.

Naturally, everyone turned their gazes toward the man, but Constance was confused to find him storming their way…and jabbing a finger at Aramis.

"He was in Emilie's camp! He destroyed her!"

Aramis subtly pushed the basket back into Constance's hands. "If you were there, then you saw that it was her mother who lied and deceived everyone."

"Everything was fine until you showed up," the man spat. He turned and raised his voice. "He's a Spanish agent! Just look at him!"

Aramis scowled, muttering something under his breath, and reached for the hilt of his sword, but two men standing behind him suddenly surged forward and grabbed his wrists before he could draw his blade. The crowd ignited like a powder keg, people swarming in and seizing Aramis from every direction. Constance was shoved backward into a stand, spilling beans across the ground. The stall owner didn't even notice, also swept up in the mob that was dragging Aramis through the street.

"Stop!" Constance screamed, but her one voice was drowned out by the many.

Aramis was manhandled toward the end of the square where hands started tearing off his weapons and coat, and Constance thought they were going to rip him to pieces bare-handed. But then she saw someone bringing out a whip, and her heart plummeted into her stomach in horror.

"No, stop!" she yelled, pushing against the crowd. But they were packed so tightly she couldn't get through. She could barely see Aramis through the throng, though she caught a glimpse of a rope being tossed over a protruding beam in the archway, and then she saw his arms being strung up above his head.

The first crack of the whip made Constance jump, but she didn't hear a scream, so maybe it had been a warning strike. It snapped again and the crowd roared with bloodthirsty cheer. There was a third, and a fourth, and then finally a garbled cry rent the air with the fifth. Tears pricked Constance's eyes and she slammed her fists against the backs of the people in front of her in frustration. They threw irritated looks over their shoulders and shoved her away. She tripped and went sprawling on the cobblestone as another snap and scream echoed across the square.

The next crack of thunder came from a pistol, and Constance whipped her head around as musketeers, led by Captain Treville, poured into the square. She scrambled to her feet in relief.

"You will cease this immediately!" Treville bellowed.

Some of the din quieted in response, but those in the inner circle around the whipping were still riled up, and Constance heard the lash strike again.

The musketeers pushed forward, and this time Athos fired his pistol into the air. "That's enough!"

"Disperse now!" Treville added. "Or you will be considered a hostile force and we will use deadly means to put a stop to it!"

That seemed to pierce the madness clouding the judgement of these otherwise normal citizens. Constance took the opportunity to push her way through the crowd to reach Aramis. The man holding the whip—incidentally the man who'd started all this—dropped the implement and turned to run.

Constance skidded to a stop next to Aramis, who was on his knees and hanging limply from the ropes around his wrists. The back of his shirt had been rent in two and his back flayed with lash marks. Blood was splattered across pale skin, his white shirt, and the cobblestones.

"Aramis?" she called, voice breaking with horror.

"Oh my god," d'Artagnan's voice sounded behind her. " _Constance_?"

Then Porthos was there and making a strangled sort of sound as he dropped down on Aramis's other side and slipped an arm across his stomach while Athos moved in and cut the ropes. Aramis dropped forward bonelessly into Porthos's arms and started to pitch to the side.

"Don't let his back touch the ground," Treville said sharply, and Constance automatically reached out to prevent Aramis from falling further. He moaned at the jostling.

"Get a wagon," Treville barked at some of the other musketeers.

D'Artagnan crouched next to Constance and put a hand on her arm. "What happened?"

She shook her head, still reeling. "It happened so fast. A man from Emilie's camp accused him of being a Spanish agent, and everyone just… I couldn't stop them."

She turned away from the grisly mess of Aramis's back and pressed her face into d'Artagnan's chest. His arms came up to enfold her.

The other musketeers returned with a commandeered cart, and several of them worked together to lift Aramis into the back, carefully laying him down on his stomach so dirt wouldn't get into the open wounds. Then they started toward the garrison.

Constance moved to follow, pausing as she caught sight of her basket, trampled on the ground, fruit juice and pulp splattered across the stone like Aramis's own flesh and blood were a mere few feet away. She quickened her pace before she could throw up.

The journey to the garrison was slow-going but thankfully not very far. Which was how the musketeers had been able to arrive so quickly before that mob had succeeded in killing Aramis. They all passed under the archway of the gate, and then Constance watched as the men gingerly carried Aramis into the infirmary.

"I'll take you back to the palace," d'Artagnan said softly.

Constance nodded mutely and let him turn her away. Her thoughts were still awhirl as they walked silently. Fortunately d'Artagnan didn't try to prompt anything out of her. Constance wondered whether he knew about Aramis and the Queen. Oh, how she really wanted someone to talk to about that.

But she couldn't risk it if d'Artagnan didn't already know. Not that she didn't trust him completely, but it wasn't her secret to tell. So she held her tongue and gave a weak farewell when they reached the palace. But as she was walking through the halls, she realized with horror that the Queen would want to know what happened to Aramis. But if Constance told her, then she'd probably want to go see him, and that wouldn't be appropriate, and such an action would start to draw curiosity. Yet how could Constance keep it from her?

In the end it didn't matter, because before Constance had even made up her mind, she came upon Anne in the halls.

"Constance," the Queen greeted brightly. "Did you find the peaches…" Her smile dipped. "What's wrong?" Her gaze drifted down and her eyes widened. "Are you hurt? What happened?"

Constance looked down and saw the blood on her skirts. "It's not mine," she said.

Anne quickly waved the rest of her ladies-in-waiting away and took Constance's hand, leading her into the Queen's private chambers and sitting her on a settee.

"What happened?" she asked again, taking a seat beside her and keeping a hold of her trembling hands.

"There…there was another mob," Constance began.

Anne's expression pinched with anguish. "I thought with Emilie's departure, the hatred would stop." She furrowed her brow and looked at Constance more carefully. "They didn't attack you because of me, did they?"

Constance shook her head. "No. It…they attacked Aramis."

Anne's face blanched. "What?"

"Someone recognized him from Emilie's camp, blamed him for her leaving. Accused him of being a Spanish agent. They…" Her voice hitched against her will.

"They what? Constance, please tell me," Anne pleaded.

"They whipped him."

Anne put a hand up to her mouth.

"The Musketeers came and put a stop to it before they could kill him," Constance went on. "He's back at the garrison now being tended to."

Anne surged to her feet. "I need to see him."

"You can't!" Constance blurted, jumping up as well.

"I am Queen and one of my musketeers was brutally attacked," she replied sternly.

Constance took a deep breath. "Your Majesty, you _can't_. Would you go for any other musketeer? People will question why this one, and it will draw attention to the two of you, attention that could put you both in danger. Please."

Anne wavered, expression crumpling. "You're right," she said brokenly. "I just…"

Constance reached out to clasp her hands. "I know," she said. And she did. If d'Artagnan had been the one injured, Constance would want nothing else than to be by his side.

Anne nodded. "Will you give him something for me? You're the only one who can."

Constance nodded slowly, uncertain whether she wanted to be put in the middle of this any more. But, as the Queen said, she was the only one who could.

Anne went to one of her drawers and pulled out a simple silk handkerchief, pale blue with embroidered flowers. No name or initials. "I made this when I was younger," she explained. "Give it to Aramis. Tell him…it's the only token I can give from this moment forward."

"I'm sure he'll treasure it," Constance said.

Anne gave a wan smile. "You should change before you go."

Constance had forgotten about her soiled skirts, but she took a few minutes to stop in her chambers to change, then tucked the Queen's handkerchief securely on her person and headed back to the garrison.

When she arrived, she found d'Artagnan and Athos sitting glumly at the table in the yard, heads bowed and sipping at cups of wine. Constance's heart fluttered nervously.

"How is he?" she asked.

D'Artagnan looked up in surprise.

"I…couldn't stop thinking about him," she quickly explained. "After seeing what happened…"

"The lashes didn't go down to the bone," Athos answered. "So as long as they don't become infected, there's a good chance he'll recover."

"Can I see him?" Constance asked.

D'Artagnan stood and walked her over to the infirmary. Porthos was inside, sitting next to where Aramis was laid out on a cot on his stomach, his back patched with white bandages splotched with red. His wrists were also bandaged, she noticed. He looked ashen.

Constance looked between d'Artagnan and Porthos, biting her lip as she considered how she might pass along the Queen's gift without drawing attention.

"I can sit with him for a little while," she offered. "I'm sure you both could use something to eat."

Porthos cast a hesitant look at Aramis, but then nodded. "Yeah, alright. Thanks."

Constance nodded, gave d'Artagnan an encouraging smile, and waited for the two of them to leave. Then she moved to take Porthos's seat at Aramis's bedside, her heart clenching further as she roved her gaze over his back. She nearly startled when she found his eyes open to half mast.

"You're awake?" she whispered.

"Unfortunately," he replied, voice reduced to a mere rasp. "Are you all right?"

"Me?" she asked incredulously. "You're the one they brutally attacked."

"I couldn't see- what happened- to you," he breathed. "Was worried."

Constance gave him a fond look. "I'm fine." She cast a glance at the closed door, then lowered her voice. "I brought you something. From the Queen." She pulled out the handkerchief and reached out to tuck it into his hand. "She sends her wishes for you to get well."

Aramis fingered the silk cloth and closed his eyes for a moment with a sigh. When he opened them again, there was a grief wavering in those dark irises. "I'm sorry for burdening you with this," he said. "I'm always a burden to my friends."

Constance stiffened. "Do the others know?"

"Athos does," Aramis admitted. "Though like you, he wishes he'd never walked in on that revelation. I am sorry, Constance. Not for loving… _her_. But for burdening everyone else with it."

"Shush," Constance said. "You're not a burden, Aramis. Irritating and trying at times," she added with a quirked smile.

His lips twitched faintly in return.

She dropped her voice to a whisper again. "But your secret is safe with me." She reached out and stroked a sweaty lock of hair away from his eyes, which drifted closed under the tender touch. "I know what forbidden love is like."

And what a loveless marriage was. So she couldn't begrudge them for finding something precious in each other.

She just hoped it didn't bring them more heartache and woe in the end.


End file.
